


a soul bitten into with wrong

by hasitsclaws



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: F/M, True Blood AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hasitsclaws/pseuds/hasitsclaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate Fuller wasn't expecting much when culebras came out to the world, until one walked into the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Santa Sangre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grayglube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/gifts), [ohyellowbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/gifts).



> trying to get back into writing fic. thank you to the beautiful grayglube for helping me out with this; you my bae.  
> story takes place in the true blood universe. i have no rights to any universe or characters.

 

 

_"Here are the women with ancient_

_anger in their veins and the cruelty_

_of a goddess in their hearts._

_You will beg before her, you_

_will scream; but Hera never flinched_

_from the words of a mortal,_

_so why should she?_

_Do not stand in her way._

_She will burn down your kingdoms,_

_herself with it, if it meant_

_your ruin."_

_—Medea_

 

* * *

 

 

She’s never seen as clearly as she does when the culebra walks into the bar.

The creatures exhumed themselves from their hidden temples and into the eyes of the public about two years ago. They’re basically _Mexican Dracula_ according to her brother and Kate’s been waiting to see one up close since she heard the news. She knew it was a long shot one would show in Bible Belt Texas, she’s left room for hope when the news reports went out saying crosses and holy water were null. Still, most people around didn’t take too well to it when Culebra right’s associations publically stated that the species was created by _ancient Mayan Gods_. Even new-age Christians weren’t one for modernity, repeatedly taking the path towards conversion and condemnation instead of giving the creatures rights.

Kate’s still glad the culebra in her section came tonight despite it all.

Her life is quiet now and new things are a commodity. It wasn’t always like that, she used to be a regular southern bell, the perfect preacher’s daughter, but then the visions started. Whether it’s a gift from God or the Devil himself, a prophet in this time period does not stand as a credible witness. Half the town has been apt to assume she’s gone crazy along with her alcoholic father; it’s easier to believe because there are no Joan of Arc's when prozac and haldol are readily available.

It started the season the culebras unearthed themselves and famous politicians called for a wall, but with UV floodlights on top and her mama kept the t.v. on all day, all night, afraid of everything. At first it was just headaches, sensitivity to light. Then that following summer mama was _dead_ , and Kate started to see, really _see_ , secret things and shadows, monsters and people whose faces weren’t their own. Her nightmares used to be childish before all of it, boogeymen and darkness, trying to run with stuck feet. But now she knows monsters are _real_ , and when she dreams, she still feels like a mouse being swallowed, but this time the monster has a face.

Or rather, _eyes_ , blue, ‘ _I promise it won’t hurt_.’

When she wakes up she never remembers him in anything more than fragments, just knows that sometimes she can get a sense of the people around her, what they’re thinking, never whole words, just the whispers, the pains, the secrets, the awful wants. If their intentions are bad she can see it on ‘em like they’re wearing a mask, their face prying loose at the seams and ripping free. Under the bloody muscle, when they scratch, they look like demons.

She doesn’t tell most people, but just because Bethel’s full of rednecks doesn’t mean they’re all necessarily stupid. People notice. Either way, she doesn’t go out much. Little treats start to count a whole lot with her, even when they involve the undead.

When the culebra walks in, everyone at the bar goes silent. They stop chowing on grease, shooting pool, taking shots. Kate’s never seen the room so still, so gravely silent before. It’s kind of exciting.

She’d started off the shift as the only waitress on staff since the other closer, Libby, didn’t show; it’d been disgusting busy till the boss got Jessie to come cover Kate’s ass. Basically, the last place she wanted to be was this stupid bar before _he_ walked into it.

The culebra’s tall and lithe, his skin more porcelain than corpse. Dishwater hair slicked back like Buddy Holly, blue eyes behind coke bottle glasses. Kate can’t help but think that his suit looks like something a door-to-door bible bumper would buy as he saunters effortlessly to her section and sits.

“ _Caramba_ ,” comes a voice to her left. She glances over and sees Rafa,  gawking over the culebra just like everyone else. “Bethel’s first, and he’s in your section, Katerina.”

Kate’s eyes are still on the culebra, sizing him up, mesmerized, but she makes herself look at her boss, pupils blown like she’s high. “Oh.”

“Don’t tell me you’re scared. I don’t think he’d have come in here if he was looking for something living to eat.”

She simply blinks.

When she woke up this morning she wasn’t thinking of  her night turning out the way it has. She’d been focused on how late she was for her first job, lost in dreams and pressing for a near constant snooze on her alarm clock. Scott had interrupted in the middle of her rushed morning routine, a soft rasp of the knuckles against her bedroom door.

“Hey,” he said, voice sleep syrup thick. “I heard your alarm go off. I was too lazy to get up the first time and tell you.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” she answered, quietly, picked up a brush and started raking it through hair to look like she was doing something other than staring at her own reflection like a ghost. Ever since their mother died, she’s wanted more than anything to be brave for Scott; their father can’t be, so she has to.

He hesitated before stepping into her bedroom, shutting the door behind him. A hot summer breeze rushed through her window at the vacuum effect, drifted over him and to her. She could smell his aftershave, crisp like fruit and pine. He’s growing at an alarming rate, less of a boy every day and more of a man. It really doesn’t surprise her that Scott thinks it’s _cool_ that culebras exist-- maybe he doesn’t feel like the only outsider anymore.

“What’s up?”

“Dad’s drunk.”

Her chest constricted, but she didn’t turn, just said: “It’s not even noon yet.”

“I know,” Scott mumbled, looking around the room, playing with her ceramic baptismal keepsakes on the bookshelf. “He knocked over the vase on the table and broke it. Got real mad, broke the other one on the counter, just because.”

Their father hasn’t taken their mother’s death well.

She’d found the accident reports in her dad’s study a few months after it happened, he’d been trying to _save_ her mom. They’d been having so many problems, her mother couldn’t handle it, he’d told her and Scott.

_She just took so many. I had to get her to the hospital._

He’d already been drinking, ‘a little’ tipsy.

_I told you I could see just fine!_

He’d kept insisting there was someone in the road; that he’d swerved to avoid them and flipped the car.

_I didn’t know what else to do!_

And then her mother was dead. The cops never found the person in the road, just the pills in her mother’s system, and the booze in her father’s.

Now Jacob Fuller is drunk at 11:43 on Friday afternoons and her mother is a memory.

She tries to distance herself from it sometimes, it feels wrong, like a sin. But it’s easier. Her brother has been devoid of any real emotion about the whole situation.

“Did he give you any trouble?” she asked.

“No. He’s watching old family movies in his study again.”

She turned from her mirror. “You gonna be home today?”

“No, I’m going over to Clarence’s to play video games.”

“Dad’ll be fine without us, then.”

Instead of replying, he picked up the old stuffed lamb she still keeps on her bed. When they were young he always wanted to play with it but she refused to share, would hide behind the couch with the toy where her brother wouldn’t think to look for her. “So Clarence wants to go to San Angelo next Saturday to pick up some stuff from Gamestop. Is it okay if I go with?”

Scott is four months away from turning eighteen and she doesn’t expect him to listen if she said no anyways. Since summer break started a month ago he and Clarence have been going non-stop now that the latter has his license and his own car. “Promise you’ll be careful?” is all she asked.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go looking for any culebras while I’m there, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Don’t go sniffin’ through any dark alleys hopin’ to get lucky.”

“Like you wouldn’t think it was cool if you saw one!”

Of course, when he said that Kate laughed at him because it’s been over _two years_ and still neither of them had ever seen one. At least, until a culebra came and plopped himself down right in her section.

“I’m not scared,” she finally tells Rafa, puffs up her chest for false bravado.

“Then go on and play missionary.”

She makes a face. “I’m not about that.”

“I was giving you shit, Katie. Don’t be so nervous, I'm sure he can smell it on you.”

“Gee, you’re encouraging.” Bites her lip, blinks, tries to set her shoulders straight. “I should go take his order.” She feels queasy as she turns on her heel and begins walking to the culebra’s table. Her steps feel laboured, like she’s walking through fog, and the whole time he’s just _looking at her_.

So is everyone else. They’re all amazed to see an actual soucriant in their bible belt, the serpent in the pulpit. When Kate’s finally at the edge of his table she can feel her heart racing, sweat beading on her forehead. His stare is just so _intense_ , like he’s looking right through her-- no, not through, but _in_ , he’s looking _inside_ of her and she just knows that he can see her bleeding. She doesn't know how she knows, just that she does like with the others. Yet, somehow, it's still different with a dead man.

“Hi,” she says, if only to break the silence ringing in her ears.

“You okay?” the culebra asks in response.

Kate tilts her head at him-- his eyes track the motion behind the thick rims of his glasses. She wonders why he's wearing them, suddenly. “I’m...fine,” she says, pauses awkwardly, kind of stunned. “...You’re our first,” she blurts before she can think better. “Culebra, I mean,” she tries to clarify when he raises a brow in confusion; she can feel heat rising up her neck and wonders vaguely if he can smell it. “Welcome to Bethel.”

He leans in conspiratorially close to her, makes her lungs tremble in their cage, her personal space crowded suddenly. “What makes you think I’m a culebra, or that I’m your _first_.” Lets his syllables drip, makes her knees wobbly as he leans away and smirks, the peak of sharp canines behind bow mouth.

“Your, uh, demeanor? I don’t know,” she says. “I can just tell.”

“It’s because you can identify your predators.”

Mouth scrunching up, she tries to see what he’s playing at. “You don’t look like that scary of a predator.”

“Thank you,” he replies. He leans back as if she’s passed some test, shown him the secret handshake.“You have nice hair.” He tells her.

Kate mumbles, shifts, gapes; she wonders if he actually thought they were trading compliments or if he’s just trying to screw with her.

He smirks again, the insides of her thighs tingle and she’s sure he’s mocking her, suddenly so embarrassed she knows she’s going red as a tomato.

“Um, I’m Kate,” she says because she has to say _something_. “I’ll be your waitress for tonight.”

“Nice to meet you, _Kate_ ,” he says her name like a prayer. “I’m Richard.”

“Richard?” she scoffs before she can help herself.

He stays still.

She stiffens. “Sorry, sorry, I just thought that since you’re a culebra yer name would be somethin’ like Angel, or Valentino. Something more...”

“Shakira-Shakira sounding?” he supplies blankly.

She shakes her head, grimacing. “Not necessarily. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve read too much Anne Rice wiki.”

At that Richard _laughs_. Her veins hum. And even though she knows everyone’s attention is on them, she suddenly doesn’t care and laughs softly with him.

But when she looks him in the eye, it makes her dizzy.

“You can call me Richie, if it’s any better,” he says.

It forces a smile at the edge of her mouth. “Um, so, what can I get ya... _Richie_?” she asks, acutely aware of how little her shorts and t-shirt cover, the way his gaze is all over the flush on her chest, the milk of her thighs and thin knees.

He tilts his head at her. “Do you have any Santa Sangre?”

Kate nods, remembers that the day Rafa went and bought a case of the synthetic blood. Gets a new one when the other expires, even if it's gone untouched. He finds it _cool_ like Scott. “I grew up with legends of Culebras,” he’d said when Sergeant Frost asked him why he bought the case one night after duty. “Of course I’m wary, but where I come from they’re not so much monsters, as cursed men. I imagine they choose to be good or evil like the rest of us.”

“I think it’s just O-negative,” Kate says softly. “Is that okay?”

“I prefer AB-positive,” Richie answers.

That makes her take in a shallow breath- that’s _her_ blood type, how did he know…? _He didn’t,_ she shakes it off. _Stop overthinking this, you’re retarded._ Then she thinks she shouldn’t have thought ‘retarded’ because it isn’t a kind word and feels just plain bad.

“But O-negative is fine.”

“Coming right up,” she says, happy to be free of him, of the garble in her head he's bringing, radio static. When she steps back it’s like Atropos has cut an old thread.

She rushes to the walk-in freezer at the back of the kitchen, lets the cold air calm her down once inside. Scavenges for where Rafa shoved the latest Santa Sangre case behind a box of hamburger meat since it hasn’t been used yet. Uncaps a bottle of O-negative and stares at it for a moment-- it’s almost icy now that it’s been sitting for so long, and Kate wonders if that would taste like shit to a culebra, blood is supposed to be warm.

She sniffs, it's thick, cloying.

One look at the back of the bottle and, sure enough, it says to heat it up for a more ‘ _fulfilling_ ’ taste. Kate throws it in the microwave for a minute, leans against the counter as she waits. When the timer beeps she pulls the bottle out and sniffs again. This time it smells more sweet. Morbid curiosity overcomes her and she takes the smallest nip. It isn't what she expected, like ensure almost, but rusty, fake nutrition, powdery and manmade. It reminds her of nursing homes, or maybe the children's wing of a hospital.

The kitchen door opens and the cook, Pete strides in wiping wet hands on a paper towel from the washroom, comes face-to-face with an impish Kate lowering the bottle from her lips.

She knows him from friends in high school, he used to work at the gas station downtown before a faulty propane tank blew it sky high. His beard’s always just a bit too scruffy and she’s pretty sure he sells drugs in his free time, but he’ll talk to you about almost anything and is there to help in a bind, so Kate doesn’t mind his conspiracy theory percona too bad.

“Caught with your hand in the coffin,” Pete says.

She likes him well enough, but sometimes his tone is too cryptic. She spins the bottle between baptized palms and says, “We got our first culebra,” for lack of any other words.

“No shit?” he muses, stepping out of the doorframe so she can get through. “Just be careful, preacher’s girl. Dead guys will put a hand up your shorts right quick, don’t walk through no cemeteries.”

Though she doesn’t understand what he’s saying, she agrees anyways. “Will do,” skirts around him back out onto the serving floor.

Only, when she gets there, the culebra isn’t sitting in the same spot anymore. Instead he’s moved to another table, across a booth seat from some guy Kate isn’t familiar with, but he doesn’t look like any better company than Richie. She squares her shoulders and makes herself walk over there anyways to give Richie his drink, takes in his companion and can tell right away the man’s human, non-descript appearance besides pasty skin, big mouthed with onetomany gigantic teeth, glasses, bright blond hair. He leers at her, and automatically she doesn’t like him.

“Here ya go,” she says to Richie, setting down his drink.

Their eyes meet and he smiles at her, and suddenly the world loses focus. She sees nothingness, the air crackles, like whiplash, she can hear static and bones breaking, then silence, the whole world focused away from her. The ground opens up and gods leak out, the days reverse and begin again, like a whirlwind, milleniums passing until she is only here, in this moment, as she _sees_.

 _Man, he’s a bigger motherfucker than I thought. A real jaguar. Bet his blood is cream-of-the-crop, runs out blue and everything. Wonder if he’s the sun or the moon, what kind of trip he’ll give you… I_ have to _know. If only this little piece of ass would stop staring at him and give me some leg room to work with..._

Kate looks at the man sitting across from Richie, the twitching in his steepled hands, his nervous smile. And though it seems crazy, _impossible_ , she knows she just heard his thoughts, and that he’s going to hurt the culebra on the other side of the both.

“Oh my god,” she says then, and both Richie and the drainer’s eyes snap to her. “I-I,” she stutters, knowing she can’t say anything in front of everyone or it’ll cause a scene, and with a culebra here, who knows how bad that could go… “Um, you two stay _right here_!” she says, hasn’t even greeted the man Richie is sitting with before she’s starting to stumble away. “I’m gonna get you two some extra napkins, just stay right here!”

She dashes to the back, doesn’t know what to do exactly, but knows she has to do _something_ or someone could get hurt. _Richie_ could get hurt and for some reason that doesn’t settle well with her. She’s never seen him before in her life, he’s a _culebra_ , already _dead_ , and yet she doesn’t want any harm to come to him.

“Rafa!” she says as she storms into his office where he’s quietly filling out paperwork. “Rafa, the culebra-”

“What is it?” Rafa asks, hastily standing, on alert.

“I think he’s in trouble,” Kate says, watches as Rafa blinks, confused. “Don’t ask me how I know this,” she begs, “but he’s sitting with a man out there who’s not a good man.”

Rafa stares at her like she’s just grown a second head and announced she can speak to God. “I think the culebra can handle himself.”

“But Rafa--”

“We shouldn’t go getting into his business, Kate. I’m all for equality as long as they aren’t hurting anyone, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna get involved in their affairs. And neither should you.”

She huffs, stomps her foot childishly. “Whatever.”

“I mean it, Katerina!” Rafa calls as she leaves the office.

Naturally, she ignores him and heads straight towards the booth, only to see that now _no one_ is there. For a moment she’s frozen, wondering if the whole thing was a dream...but no, there on the table is Richie’s full bottle of Santa Sangre and twenty dollars, more than enough for tab and tip.

 _Shit_ , she thinks, looks in through the kitchen window and finds Pete staring at her. “You still keep those two-by-fours in your truck?” she asks.

He nods-- Kate’s a big girl and he can only warn her, can’t actually stop her once her mind’s made up; they have an odd mutual respect about these things. “You need help?”

“I got this,” Kate says, doesn’t want anyone getting hurt because she really doesn’t know what could happen, how Richie will react. But somehow she knows he won’t hurt her.

“Yell out _forty-six oh-two_ if you need me,” Pete says. “I’ll be listening.”

“Thank you,” she says, and rushes out into the parking lot in hopes of catching up to her culebra.

When she gets outside it’s pitch dark, the lot’s half-packed; Texan heat settles around her, writhing, sticky. There’s no noise besides the cicadas, the wind, the buzz of flies dying as they hit neon. She thinks she’s lost track of both drainer and culebra when she finally hears it-- hissing coming from the cluster of willows at the left side of the lot.

Pete’s truck is parked next to her car; she creeps quietly to the bed and reaches around for a sturdy sized plank that’s about half as long as her; it feels heavy as she lifts it but it’s the only weapon she’s got. She supposes he never thought it’d be used by a 5’3”, hundred and ten pound white girl defending a dead man when he bought it for odds and ends at work, and somehow the humor of it seems to stamp down her fear of what’s about to happen.

Creeping to the edge of the lot, she stays low as she peers around the side of one of the willows. Tries to keep herself from gasping as she sees the man from the booth standing over Richie-- only the latter doesn’t look like the Marlon Brando wannabe he did just a few minutes ago. Now he’s prone in the dirt, silver chainlink wrapped round his appendages and sizzling, she doesn’t know how it’s hurting him but he can’t seem to move; his porcelain skin has turned to scales, his eyes are yellow slits, he’s snapping fangs at the man as he drives a needle into Richie’s arm and purple-blue blood starts filling the bag attached.

“This is a lot easier than I thought it’d be,” the man laughs; he’s missing his glasses but still has his stupid, big teeth. “They made it sound like you were mightier than this.”

Richie hisses, the sound shrill enough to make her insides shrivel. But she can’t just stand back and watch as this happens-- she knows the man won’t quit until there’s no blood left in Richie’s body. Don’t ask her how she knows this, because she doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about any of this.

Yet there’s no choice at this point, so she takes a deep breath and steps forwards. The man is taller than her, bigger. She can’t attack from the back if she wants the advantage, knock him off his guard, has to go slow… _SNAP!_

She curses every Mary, bishop, priest and altar boy she can think of when she steps on the twig. The man turns almost instantly, sees the plank in her hand and launches for her. Panic, the sensation of _pain_ when he strikes her; she stumbles back and her head hits a tree trunk, _sees stars_ , and he goes for her again.

“What a wily one we have here,” he laughs, and _god_ she hates his fucking teeth.

“Kate!” Richie screams, and he’s struggling but weak, chained down.

The man grabs her arm as she recovers from his last blow, tries to yank her towards him but she digs her heels into the ground. “Now come on, sis. Why you messing with big, bad men twice your size? It’d be such a shame to ruin that pretty face of yours anymore than I already have.” His breath smells like stale beer and cigarettes, it makes her insides twist; his dirty nails are digging into her flesh and she’s just about to call out _4602_ because she can’t focus on any other thing than getting this creep _off of her!_

“Get off of her!” Richie snarls, a real gutted, hissing sound, and it’s enough to distract the man, just slightly.

The plank still halfway held in one hand, out of options, she swings as hard as she can, lands a blow to the drainer’s abdomen and he grunts, stumbling back. She takes the pause to raise the plank like a baseball bat, tries to strike his head but he turns and it catches him in the back, sends him sprawling onto his stomach in the dirt. She hits him again upside the head and he takes a nosedive, for a second she thinks he’s dead until he sputters and coughs bloody spit into the dirt.

“You bitch!” he croaks, trying to reach for her; she kicks his hands away. “Y-you don’t know w-who you’re dealing with!”

“Get outta here!” she shouts. “I’m calling the cops and _they_ can tell me who I’m dealin’ with, asshole!”

The man curses at her, he tries to go again for her ankles but she takes the heel of the two-by-four and smashes it into the top of his hand, down into the dirt until she hears a sickening _crunch_ and he wails, an animal with his tail between his legs as he shakily stands and stumbles into the lot, cradling his hand to his bruised chest. Kate thinks it’ll be the last she has to deal with him when she hears a car engine rev, sees lights headed right in her direction.

“Holy shit!” she says, drops the plank and ducks quick to scoop Richie’s shoulders up in her arms and _pull_.

She manages to move them to the other side of a thick rooted willow, making the man swerve in order to avoid hitting the trunk. “This isn’t over, Hanahpu!” he screams out the window as he speeds off into the night.

“Whoa,” Kate says, watching the taillights fade. Her body is still partially under Richie’s, both of their breathing laboured.

When she looks at him again, his eyes aren’t yellow anymore, he has no fangs or scales, only deep, steaming wounds where the chainlinks rests against his skin. The needle fell out of his arm in the move at least, and the blood bag lies rejected on the ground a few feet away.

“That doesn’t look comfortable,” she says.

“Then take it off of me.”

“How can I trust you? I thought culebras were supposed to be impenetrable to silver, what if it’s a trick?”

“It’s not.”

“Then how’s this thing holding you still?” she asks, plucking at the chain without any negative result.

He shifts, like he’s trying to shed his skin. “It’s laced with some kinda weird powder, Mayan hoodoo, it’s the only thing to keep a culebra down.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Eagle claws and jaguar teeth salve, it’s a long story.”

She shakes her head. “Whatever, just promise you ain’t gonna eat me, and I’ll take the chain off.”

“What if I can’t promise that?” he’s smirking at her.

Pressing the chain into his skin, she smiles when he shrinks in pain. “Don’t test me, and I promise it won’t hurt.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to convert me.”

Ignoring him, she hesitantly removes the chain, one inch at a time. The wounds it’s caused heal instantly when they hit the air, like there was never any harm done to his flesh in the first place. “Didn’t your daddy ever tell you not to chase after dangerous men?” he asks when he’s clean of the burden.

She meets his eyes, crystal blue oceans that make her hide shyly behind her long, dark hair. “My daddy says a lot of things.”

He sighs, leans back against the tree now that he’s free of restraint and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his suit pocket; picks his poison and puts the filter between his lips, in no hurry to leave. “You’re bleeding,” he says as he lights up.

The words register and she’s suddenly aware of the pain in her cheek, her jaw, her lip. She touches it, it smarts, she licks away the red, thumbs in the direction of his fan-club, “Who was that guy?” she asks. “Why'd he call you...hanapu? or somethin’?”

Richie shrugs, takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Said his name was Sex Machine, offered me a free drink,” he snorts. “Probably just another V addict who was looking for a fix and casting off slurs. Let me take a look at that.”

He’s in her personal space again, quick as a snake and she shrinks back, holding the silver chain still in her hands up in front of her.

“Whoa,” Richie says. “Easy. I promise I won’t bite.”

She measures him another moment, unsure, but there’s something in his eyes that makes her want to trust him. “Let me have one of those, then you can look,” she says, nodding at his cigarette. He smirks and gives her a lucky, lights it; she lets him put his hand on her face only softly-- it’s tender, cold. He brushes his thumb against her lower lip after she takes a drag and pulls the filter from her mouth; when he takes his hand away there’s a tiny bead of blood smudged into his fingerprints. He brings his thumb to his mouth and _sucks_ , and her ankles tremble, she feels hot inside.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s the truth. When I saw you in there, you looked like you were bleeding-- inside, I mean. Like the pain’s leaking out.”

 _I knew he saw it_ ; she swallows dryly, overcome. _How does he know that?_ The way he says pain doesn’t sound like he even means pain at all.

And, suddenly, for no good reason, her eyes well with traitorous tears, and she feels compelled to tell him the truth. "Do you ever feel like your life, and- and ev’rything in it is just...slowly turnin' upside down like a ship flippin' over in the ocean?" she asks him, doesn't meet his gaze after the words are out.

"You have no idea," he answers her, blowing smoke through his nostrils; he must be looking at her and the way she just keeps breathing out puffs of stale air because then he says, "You're not inhaling."

"I'm not a smoker.”

"You seem like a nice girl.” And when she meets his eye the sincerity she finds there is almost appalling.

"How would you know?" Kate asks. "I could be a terrible person."

"I pick up on things.”

She thinks about what happened inside, about how she just _knew_ what that drainer was thinking, and she accepts what he says. Maybe she’s crazy, but, whatever.

“Yeah?” she asks. “What other kinds of things do you pick up on? Vulnerable waitresses dumb enough to follow a culebra into the dark?”

“That would be despicable,” he smirks.

She smiles back at him.

They’re quiet as they finish their cigarettes; it feels weird to share silence with a dead man. She knows his heart doesn’t beat, wonders how blood can still move through his system, how he _works_ . How many people has he bitten to sustain his way of living, how many has he _killed_ ? He felt so cold, like a corpse, or a snake who hasn’t sat in the sun for awhile. _Does he always feel that way?_ She knows he can’t walk in the sunlight, none of them can as far as anyone’s been told. Crucifixes are a myth, but sunlight and stakes, beheading, that’s legit. What else is Richie afraid of? Or is he afraid of anything at all?

Eventually he finishes his cigarette and tosses it in the dirt, stands, nods to the bag of his blood Sex Machine or whoever the fuck that guy was managed to drain before Kate came to the rescue. “You can take that if you want, sell it. It’s the least I can repay you with for saving me.”

“I don’t get involved with that stuff,” she says, letting out one last breath of smoke before smashing her filter into the dirt.

He smiles at her. “You _are_ a good girl, aren’t you Kate Fuller?”

“I guess so,” she answers.

He laughs, dusts off his bible salesman suit. “Well, until we meet again, then,” he says, and walks past her.

She waits for just a moment before turning to stare after him. “Are you staying in Bethel?” she calls as he walks steadily into the darkness.

“You’ll see me soon enough,” he says without turning back, and then he disappears into the shadows of the road.

Blinking, Kate touches her lip where it was bleeding-- there isn’t even a scratch, and somehow her face no longer hurts. When she licks the corners of her mouth she tastes ashes, cordit, cinnamon, venom, she’s barely mad about his little tricks, that he tasted her blood and knew her full name even though she never gave it to him.

 _Focus, Kate._ Shakes it off and goes back inside to finish out her shift, realizing she hasn't been able to see this clearly in a long time.

* * *

 

She waits for him to come in the next night, but he doesn’t. Not the night after that, or the one after it either. After a while she gives up, goes back to her normal routine of sleep, work, more work, a nightly crossword puzzle, back to sleep, lather, rinse, repeat.

Rafa calls her on her first day off in a month to ask if she can cover a night shift that Friday, says Libby didn’t show again. Kate agrees to come in, of course, she needs the money. When her momma died and her dad started drinking again he lost all semblance of faith. He hasn’t preached in months, hasn’t found a new job either. Now there’s too many bills to pay, not enough food most nights. She wonders how long it’ll be until they lose the house. And what will they do then? Scott isn’t even done with high school yet, and there’s no way the system will let him stay if they’re homeless. Kate could lose him, too. She’s taken on two jobs, one in a grocery store during the day, and the other at Callahan’s during the night; works at least sixty hours a week and she still can’t seem to fix things after her parents managed to shred their life so thoroughly.

How long exactly has her momma been dead anyways, she wonders. Months, a whole year now? Is Jennifer Fuller good and rotten in the ground yet, bird bones whittled at by magots? Does she have hair anymore, are her fingernails still growing? Did her abdomen split back open and leak out all the embalming fluid when they lowered the casket, did her lips curl back from her teeth? They take the eyeballs out right away, put fake ones in the socket so the lids don’t droop. Could Kate have asked them to put her mother’s eyes in a jar so she could keep them on her bookshelf next to her children’s bible, maybe then she’d really _see_?

Some worried that culebraism was a new disease you could catch through the air when it first surfaced, her momma had worn a mask outside and everything; there had been a tiny part of Kate that wished it to be true, that wondered if her mother would wake up again, hug her, say she was sorry for killing herself and leaving her family alone. Or maybe she would say nothing and just open a bottle of Santa Sangre for dinner…

But culebraism isn’t airborne, and her mom is still dead while other ‘dead’ people aren’t. _How sick is that?_ she thinks. Late at night she’s starting to question her faith, God forgive her. But the world is full of terrible things, and she wakes in the morning a mess of limbs, tangled hair, sweat, throat raw from screaming with her mouth sewn shut like a scarecrow. Once, her mother would’ve been there to turn on the light and hold her. Now there’s only the cold side of the pillow for comfort.

Every day has been the same since the funeral. Her life feels like the equivalent of watching paint dry, only there’s this big spot of blood on the wall no one bothered to wash off before painting over so it keeps showing through the paint and she has to add a new layer and watch it dry all over again. Most of the time while she’s doin’ her makeup in the morning, she wants to smash her reflection. Sometimes she wonders if it would actually make her feel better, if maybe she can surpass her grief with violence. But she was raised on hymns, and is more prone to her nurture when it comes down to it.

Sighing, she finishes getting ready for work. Scott is away at Clarence’s and her father is passed out in his study. The house is quiet, she misses the sound of her mother humming while cooking dinner. She ties her hair up with a ribbon and adds some lip gloss before slipping out the door.

The bar is packed when she gets there. She’s been working here since the end of high school so she’s used to that by now, but still, she isn’t particularly happy to talk to the same hundred hicks she does every other day.

“There she is!” Rafa yells from behind the bar when he sees her come in. “My miracle worker!”

Kate flinches when everyone looks at her out of instinct, some with judging eyes because they saw the way she was looking at Richie and Richie was looking at her last night. You’d think she’s Judas giving Christ up to the Romans by the way old lady Rey glares.

“How’s it going, Katerina?” Rafa asks, warm to her as ever.

“Livin’ the dream,” she calls out, headed to the back with her head down; they’ve been quiet towards each other since he chewed her out for helping Richie the other night, saw the blood on her shirt and flipped. She told him to go fuck himself at the end of his yelling spree and he didn’t stop her from leaving before the end of her shift.

Scurrying away won’t work this time though, he catches her at the edge of the bar, kind smile as he holds out his palm, tucked inside is a little note. She opens it and finds a doodle of flowers and chocolates, his scratchy handwriting saying _I’m sorry, can I make it up to you?_ “I shouldn’ta yelled the other night, I was a real _culo_ ,” he says. “I was just worried.”

“It’s okay, Rafa,” she says-- she isn’t mad anymore-- and when he smiles and touches her elbow it spreads heat up her arm.

“You’re too kind to me.”

“How are you going to make it up to me?”

“I was thinking I'd buy you dinner sometime.”

Kate isn't stupid, she knows Rafa likes her. She can't say she doesn't like him either. He’s twenty-five, kind, owns his own business, and isn’t bad on the eyes either. She knows his family moved to Texas from Mexico when he was fifteen, his parents died years ago before he opened the bar. She likes the softness in his smile, and the smell of the cologne he wears. Sometimes when he smirks at her and his incisors show, she can’t help but flush. So why does it suddenly make her so very nervous now that he's finally asking her out?

“If I ever actually get a day off, maybe,” she answers, can't give him anything more than that because he's her _boss_ and is she even ready for intimacy yet anyways?

His face falls just slightly. “So, rain check?”

“Yeah.”

Looking only at her feet, Kate goes to the back room and clocks in for the night. Monotony begins as she takes orders and carries trays, sees all the usual faces. It’s busy because it’s Friday and typically that would leave her with no room to think, yet she can’t help but lose track of what she’s doing, which table she’s going to. She keeps thinking about Richie. There’s just something about him she can’t shake from her mind…

At the end of the night she helps Jessie mop up while Rafa puts the money away in the safe, wipes sticky dried beer and crumbs from the pinball machines and tables. “I’m really starting to worry about Libby,” Jessie says as she’s cleaning off the bar. “She hasn’t shown for a week.”

“She’s done it before,” Kate shrugs.

Twice a year Libby takes off for no reason, calls it a personal vacation, skips work and mutes all the calls from concerned friends. Most have come to accept it as normal.

Jessie grimaces, pulling at her knee socks nervously. “Usually it’s only for three or four days. Now it’s been eight. I’ve gone to her house to check on her but there’s nothing there to say she ever even left. The fridge was fully stocked and ev’rything. And every time I call her phone it goes straight to voicemail.”

Pausing with the mop, Kate looks up at the other waitress and the real fear in her eyes. “I can go check again. See if there’s something you missed? New set of eyes always helps.”

“I can come with. I just have to pick Wray up from her babysitter, first.”

“No, no, just go on home. I’ll call you if I figure anythin’ out.”

“Thanks, Kate.”

She nods, finishes cleaning and waits for Rafa to lockup before they can all leave for the night.

“You sure you’re good to go alone?” Jessie confirms, handing Kate the spare set of house keys Libby gave to her in case of an emergency.

“I’ll be okay.”

It’s only about a ten minute drive to Libby’s, a little one bedroom at the edge of town. All the lights are off as Kate unlocks the door and makes her way inside. She’s been here a few times before, knows the basic layout of the home. Feels around the wall for the light switch and flips it on. The living room illuminates and nothing looks out of place, all neat and organized like a home living advertisement. She frowns, usually Libby is more of a slob than this.

Shaking her head, she makes her way into the kitchen and finds it just as perfect; opens the fridge and sees it’s fully stocked like Jessie said; there’s several items starting to rot and they make the room smell like a mix of antiseptic and compost. She thinks that’s kind of off putting, more and more creeped out as she makes her way down the hall to Libby’s bedroom, setting her hand on the doorknob and twisting it slowly-- it sticks, but with a shove of her shoulder she gets it to budge open.

Tumbling into the room afterwards, she is immediately assaulted by the smell. It’s way worse than what was in the kitchen, less like compost and more like _death_ . It’s so cloying she gags instantly, can feel bile rising into the back of her throat and swallows hard to keep it down. Her heart begins to hammer in her chest as she searches for the lightswitch, afraid to be in the dark a moment longer yet too petrified to run from the room. Her feet shuffle as she searches and they step in something with a wet _plop_ , it’s sticky against the soles of her Nikes. She tells herself if she doesn’t find the lightswitch within the next second she’s making a run for it, only then she feels it under her fingers and shakily flips it.

The light kicks on as well as the ceiling fan, which begins spinning in violent circles immediately. Kate looks up as her eyes adjust to the brightness, only to close them when something comes flying at her. It feels wet as it splatters onto her face and she whimpers, reaching up with frantic fingers to get it off of her. When she pulls away she realizes it’s a chunk of bloody skin and shrieks as she tosses it; finally lets herself look around the room, at the blood _ev’rywhere_ in sight.

It covers the walls, the dresser and nightstands, the bed. There’s bits of gristle mixed in like the stuff that just landed on her, chunks of visceral and flesh; Kate thinks she sees a vertebra from a human spine lying at the foot-end of the bed, someone’s spleen peaking out from under a decorative pillow that got knocked onto the floor.

 _Run, run, run,_ a voice in the back of her head shouts at her, but she’s rooted still, blood all over her face and the smell of death clouding her senses. It feels like another one of her nightmares, hazy and terrifying and her feet are moving forwards without her permission, towards the bathroom door on the other side of the room. It’s cracked just slightly, with bloody handprints all over its white surface.

“Just leave, Kate,” she whispers to herself, but she knows she can’t, she has to see what’s behind this door, she _has_ to.

Taking a deep breath, she turns the handle and pulls it back; it’s dark except for bits of moonlight coming through the frosted window. She can make out the silhouette of something human slumped in the bathtub, her fingers tremble as she turns on the light.

It’s a mangled corpse sitting upright in the basin, a woman, small and full with bright blonde hair; there’s feathers all matted in it with blood. Besides that, there’s nothing left to identify the corpse with just by looking at it. It’s sitting limp, head slumped against a shoulder that’s missing half its skin, looks like it was pulled right off the muscle. Its face has been scratched away by claws, bloody chunks of shredded flesh with one eyeball hanging from a busted socket. The throat has been violently ripped out, she can see the larynx and vocal chords, little slivers of muscle all tacked with bits of skin and blood.

“Oh, god,” she whispers, moving further into the room, wading through the blood all over the tile floor. She crouches on her tiptoes, looking closer with a sudden calm, trying to assess the damage, she has to _see_ what happened.

All the skin left on the corpse that isn’t covered in blood looks blue, and with closer inspection she  realizes it’s paint, can tell by the way it flakes off when she rubs gingerly at the corpse’s still in-tact right thigh (the other has been skinned like most of the body). Its ribcage has also been split open, its spine collapsed on itself. One of the breasts has been torn off, and she can see the lungs. Other organs are missing though, the spleen which she found in the bedroom, the visceral sacs around the diaphragm. She can’t find the heart either, the aorta and pulmonary artery have been severed right in the middle, a clean cut.

Breathing shallowly, she remembers learning about ancient sacrifice in history class, how the mayans would cut out the hearts of their victims and give them as offerings to their gods. _Which is the chicken and which is the egg?_ she wonders; was this woman alive when they skinned her, or did they cut out her heart first the way they were supposed to? She reaches her hand into the open chest without thinking, feels around at where the heart used to be. Whispers trickle in like ghosts, voices that tell her tales she does not want to hear.

It’s Libby’s corpse, the wind says, exactly what Kate didn’t want to hear, but she can’t hide from the truth. Can’t drown out the screams-- she hears every, single one before the silence when Libby takes her last breath.

The air crackles and she can hear as the electricity humming through the house stops, lights dulling out until everything is darkness, just the light of the moon shining softly onto the corpse as it begins to twitch, fingers grasping at empty hair, toes wiggling. The head snaps up violently-- Kate can hear the bones popping, the spinal column no longer put together right-- she shouts and tries to move backwards, _away_ , as the corpse’s chest heaves towards the air with a wet, sickly breath, but she slips and lands on her ass against the bloody ground. The corpse looks at Kate with what’s left of Libby’s mangled face, one pretty, pretty blue eye still in the socket but its pupil is blown so wide the whole iris looks black.

Kate trembles as the mouth opens and closes, little moans and hisses escaping as the body continues to move, tries to sit all the way up in the tub. It’s too broken though, left laying there lamely, dead legs and arms flailing as it finally lets out an uninterrupted sob, unskinned and blue right hand flopping over the side of the tub and flicking more blood onto the porcelain.

Despite the terror in the pit of her stomach, her instincts telling her to run, Kate reaches up slowly as the corpse continues to sob-- she knows Libby means her no harm as their hands meet and Kate wraps her fingers around the dead woman’s cold ones. The head turns again to look at her with its black eye-- Kate can see that she’s crying.

“I’m so sorry,” Kate whispers.

Libby continues to stare at her, mouth moving like she’s trying to say a million things at once. Finally, with a groggy hiss she says, “ _They’re coming for you, Katherine._ ”

The hand in Kate’s constricts, pulling her closer; she tries not scream as the bloody mouth opens wide and something begins moving up the back of its missing throat. Jaundice eyes gleam and Kate feels all her hairs stand up on end as a snake slowly begins to slither out of the mouth, large and black with a flicking tongue. It looks at Kate with an intelligent gaze while Libby’s corpse chokes and spits around it.

Everything is still as Kate waits for the viper to strike, but it never does. Simply _looks_ at her before, finally, it slithers down the length of the corpse, slinks into the tub’s drain and disappears.

Libby goes limp when the serpent is gone, lifeless once more, and the only thing Kate can hear is sobbing as she pries her fingers from Libby’s rigor-mortis stuck hand.

_They’re coming for you, Katherine._

She’s heard those words again and again in her nightmares, when _he’s_ there. He tells her that if she keeps her eyes shut, _they_ won’t see her. She never believes him. He always smells like smoke, he slithers, strokes virgin skin and she burns. Follows him through stone halls with serpents at her feet, a maiden swallowed whole by their slimy, hissing masses. Kate is always next, after the maiden. She can feel the snakes wriggling round her ankles, pulling her into nothingness, the underworld. She begs him to drag her out and he reaches for her, but their fingers always miss. He laughs as she sinks…

She feels the ground shake under her feet and wonders if it’s going to split open again, if the world will tell her another of its secrets; why it’s chosen her in the first place, she doesn’t understand.

But after a moment the rumbling stops and the room is silent again, _he_ isn’t there, the corpse does not move, the viper does not reappear and her feet are still on the ground; she’s covered in a dead girl’s blood that reminds her of funeral hymns, finally coming back to her senses. And she just can’t take it anymore. She has to get out of here, has to call for help, something, _anything_ besides be in this room a moment longer with this dead, dead girl who never stood a chance like all the others she has dreamed of.

It’s only when Kate stands and turns to leave does she notice the dark figure blocking the doorway, and she begins to scream.


	2. Sister Christian

 

 

 

She screams until the lilt of a half-spoken Spanish expletive floats in from the threshold of the bathroom, disbelieving and then the slow choked exhale, “Jesus fucking christ, what the fuck _happened_ ?” Rafa’s in the mess with her and it’s just bright enough in the room that she can see a gag rise in his chest; he doesn’t puke but his cheeks bulge like they do in the movies for a moment, he lifts her up under the arms and steers her quickly away from the chaos like her father would when she was young and had fallen down and scraped her knees, ‘ _keep children away from the blood and they will not cry as much_ ’ her grandmother always said.

They rush through the bedroom and down the hall, into the front yard. It happens too quick for her to keep up with, her feet dragging until finally Rafa’s helping her sit on the porch swing outside. “Are you okay?” he’s asking frantically, fingers groping at her, searching for any wounds the blood on her body may have come from.

“None of it’s mine,” she says numbly. “It’s all Libby’s.”

Rafa pauses, agape. “That was _Libby_?”

“It’s her house,” Kate answers.

“But we don’t know for sure it it was--”

“It was her.”

Both of them are silent for a moment, before he lets out a long sigh and digs his cell phone out of his back pocket. She wonders if he accepts her assertion because it’s obvious it’s Libby or if he suddenly trusts her gifts that he only half believes in. She listens vaguely trying to remember a movie where someone goes into a fugue state and what the symptoms are as he calls the police, tells them what they’ve found and says _gracias_ before hanging up. Afterwards they just sit, staring out at the lawn, watching for anything suspicious to pop up in the darkness.

“What are you doing here?” Kate finally asks when she hears sirens approaching in the distance.

“I saw you take the opposite turn than usual when you left the bar. I asked Jessie where you were going and she said you offered to check on Libby again for her. I got worried, so I followed after you because it’s past midnight and I don’t like the idea of you out alone.”

“You were following me?”

“I was worried, Kate.”

“You’re not my keeper.” She’s too tired to be offended, but her tone is biting.

“Well who else is gonna be, huh? Certainly not you. What were you doing in there? What _happened_?” He’s asking too many questions at once and she can’t keep up; if she didn’t know him better she’d think that he’s accusing her of something. He’s just worried she knows, worried and maybe a little mad.

She won’t meet his eye because she doesn’t expect him to look at her like she’s sane anyways. “I don’t know. I kept telling myself to leave, but once I… Once I _smelled_ it I just couldn’t get out. I had to _see_ Rafa. I had to. You wouldn’t get it.”

“I _don’t_ get it Kate, that’s the thing. I know you’ve got a tick, we all do. That’s why I get so fucking worried, _okay_?” It looks like he’s about to cry, for a second she forgot that he isn’t used to seeing blood or talking corpses-- he looked at the same thing as her in that room, and it’s probably going to take him years to get over it.

“Shit, okay, I’m sorry, Rafa.”

He sighs, shakes his head and looks out across the front lawn that’s blanketed by darkness and the scanty yellow of rogue dandelions. “This is just all fucked up. Poor Libby.”

“Jessie just checked on her a few days ago and she wasn’t here… Who would do that to her?”

“Some sick _hijo de puta_ ,” he answers as a police cruiser pulls into the driveway. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

They watch as Sergeant Frost gets out of his car, calling for another unit on the radio. He’s an ex-vet and has been the lead detective for the town’s police force for as long as Kate can remember. He’s an intimidating man, a little tall and wide with an army issued crew cut. But he’s sweet as pie when he isn’t pulling you over, plays Santa every year for the town’s Christmas in the Park event, lets a hundred little whiny, snotty kids sit on his lap and tell him what they want in their stockings even though he doesn’t have to.

“Is anyone hurt?” Frost asks as he hurries up to the pair sitting on the porch, takes in the blood all over Kate and the leftovers she transferred onto Rafa after he grabbed her and pulled her from the house.

She looks at him blankly. “No, we’re just reenacting Carrie.”

For his part, Frost can’t come up with a reply. “I need the real story, Kate.”

“It’s mess in there. We’re pretty sure it’s Libby, but, well, there ain’t much to go on.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?”

Rafa rolls his eyes and inputs, “Yeah, the third runner up for Miss U.S.A., who coincidentally happens to be the murderer.”

Frost intones his dark, bald head and gives Rafa a stern look, telling him to cut the shit. “You two stay here, I’m gonna take a look inside.”

He disappears into the house and Kate’s skin crawls at what he’s gonna find, doesn’t want to be anywhere near it anymore in case Libby decides she isn’t done talking to her. “I wanna go home,” Kate sighs.

Rafa slings a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I’ll get you out of here as quick as they let me, Katerina.”

A second unit pulls up on the grass then, slowly, carefully, the officer inside steps out and calls her name. It’s a familiar face in a parish so small, even more familiar as it’s one of the few she’s kissed.

“Hi, Kyle,” she says when he reaches them.

He looks different from high school, his hair cut short, more definition in his jaw and shoulders; she thinks he looks good in his uniform. “Kate, I heard the dispatch. You alright? You hurt?”

“Libby’s dead.”

“You checked her?”

Rafa’s eyes roll long and hard, she’s surprised they don’t pop out and roll away across the porch, “She’s definitely not alive.”

“Who are you?” Kyle asks him, defensive.

“Rafa. Her boss.”

“And _you’re_ here because?”

“I followed Kate to check on Libby.”

“ _Followed_?” Kyle puffs his chest out defensively; she always liked him for the fact he was raised with chivalry.

It looks like the two men are about to square-up when Frost’s boots thunk from the doorway to the wood planks of the porch and everyone swivels to face him as he shouts, “Winthrop, come in here and help me secure the scene, radio for another two units, the morgue and the rest of the dicks.”

Kyle disappears inside the house after Frost and Rafa gives Kate an incredulous look; she waves him off, doesn’t want to deal with him. It takes Kyle less than a minute to reappear on the front lawn, puking his brains out in one even hurl. When he’s done he wipes his mouth and tries to avoid Kate’s eyes as he walks back to his cruiser to phone for extra backup, sheepish of his weak stomach.

Two more cruisers pull into the yard soon after, followed by an ambulance and a big, white van. Frost appears in the front door again, taking charge of the scene and giving directions to anyone who catches his eye.

“Rafa, you take Ms. Fuller home,” he says. “Winthrop will follow after and bring you back to your car.”

“I ain’t riding back with him,” Rafa says.

“Why not?” Kyle asks, offended.

“You might _vomito_ on me.”

“What the fu--”

“Enough,” Frost says. “Kate needs to go home. I’m sorry you had to see that, honey.”

She sighs. “It’s whatever.”

Frost just looks at her. “We’ll be in touch later for your guys’ stories.”

“Lookin’ forwards to it,” Rafa says sarcastically.

They walk towards the driveway but Kyle intersects them, holding out his business card to Kate. “Hey, if you ever need someone to talk to, you know I’m good for it.”

She knows he is so she pockets the card. “Thanks, Kyle.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Rafa says under his breath after she’s handed him the keys.

The drive back is silent; they take the familiar route back to her house, hitting nothing but green lights on the way. She stares out the window and tries not to think about the fact she reeks like a morgue, her uniform is ruined and her hair has blood in it, worse than blood maybe.

Kyle parks behind them in the driveway; she waits for a moment to get out of the car and go inside, Rafa is staring into the rearview with a frown.

“You know, I really don’t need two boys getting in a fight over me after I’ve just seen a dead body,” she says, annoyed.

“Well that guy is an ass. How do you know him anyways?”

“We went to church prom together, dated for a lit’le after.” She honestly can’t remember if they made it a whole year or not, time is such a trivial thing since her mama went, the days tick away and she can’t even remember what month it is half the time. The relationship she’d had with Kyle had been such a formality, they’d called it puppy love but when life set in it ceased to matter to her, she wonders for a vague moment if she broke his heart when she ended things.

“Dated? You _dated_ that guy?” The envy is evident in his voice, as well as disgust, because the Kate he knows is a lot different from the one that Kyle did.

“Yeah, and I also let him pop my cherry at Bible camp,” she says, just to push his buttons.

He gapes at her.

“I’m giving you shit. He wouldn’t go any farther than kissing.”

“ _He_ wouldn’t, huh?”

“Shut up.” She doesn’t want to give it any more fight than that, she’s suddenly so tired, her eyelids drooping and limbs heavy as he helps her out of the car and up the front steps.

“Call me when you wake and let me know you’re okay?” he asks her, only softly.

“We’ll see each other at work tonight.”

“I know, but, still…”

She doesn’t like when he gives her puppy eyes, they’re hard to resist and they make her feel bad. “Fine.”

He says goodnight and goes to the cruiser waiting for him, albeit slowly; she wonders if one of them will end up with a black eye before they make it back to Rafa’s truck. The unit doesn’t pull away until she’s got the door unlocked and lets herself inside, slides the bolt back into place when she’s finished and switches the porch light on.

The trudge up to the bathroom feels labored and long. She starts the shower and strips off her bloody clothes, stuffing them straight into the garbage can because she never wants to have to look at them ever again. The water burns when she steps into the shower; she lets it stay hot and watches quietly as blood flows down the drain. Her eyes still feel swollen and sting as she scrubs with soap to make sure there’s no red left on her body, just baby pink where she’s rubbed the skin raw; for a moment she can’t feel her face and wonders if that’s normal for someone in her situation?

She barely dries off she’s so tired the weariness feels bone deep, she leaves a puddle on the floor into front of the sink before slipping into clean clothes. Her clock reads 3:02 a.m. in fluorescent green numbers as she slips between the sheets. She rolls over and falls into a deep, distant sleep. _He_ comes to her in her dreams, because seeing one horror for the night was not enough, it’s never enough for him; he has plenty of room in his belly to continue devouring her.

“Ever wonder what our venom actually does?” His face is shadow and scales and the way he shoulders apart her thighs makes her hips leap.

He presses behind his fang until venom teardrops over his thumb, “No,” she breaths, but she’ll know soon.

He drags his thumb up her slit, she’s desperate wet and he likes that, he presses at her clit as gently as if he’s brushing something from her eye. “It’s like licking a wall socket.”

Her sex seizes and he licks into her, snakish and slicking her up. She feels empty and full at the same time, his fingers like talons where they grip into her hips. Futily she wants to get away from him, can’t take the sensation, it’s too much, but he holds her in place until she’s sobbing--

* * *

 

She wakes up with an aching cunt, her entire body throbbing with need, hair matted to her sweaty face, underwear so wet they’re sticking to her-- to top it all off, she's started her period, too. Before anyone can catch her she quickly heads to the bathroom, starts a luke-warm shower and takes a moment to sit at the edge of the bathtub and get herself off fast and efficient; won’t let herself think about the dream or _him_ , a face she can't even remember, is only doing it to satiate need, otherwise she’ll walk around all day having to replace her tampon ten times more than normal, isn't up for that kind of bullshit right now. She’s mad she even had to waste the extra water on him.

It’s only when she’s rinsing her hair that she notices the indents in her hips, like little individual nail-marks branding her.

That night at the bar, the locals are abuzz about Libby’s murder. Word has leaked out and there’s nothing but rumors spreading; Kate walks by and listens, because she's about as clueless as the rest when it comes to the details.

“Such a shame, that poor woman gettin’ all torn up like that.”

“I bet she can’t even have an open casket.”

“That girl always looked like she was headed down a bad road.”

“The police are sayin’ but maybe _culebras_ did it.”

“I bet it was that snake from the other night. We don’t need that kinda creature ‘round these parts.”

Kate tries to take it with stride when everyone starts blaming Richie. People talk. There’s nothing she can do to the stop that, even if she doesn't believe a word of what they're saying.

But then the Rangers arrive. For some reason they always come in pairs. They look like they’re straight out of a Wild West movie when they walk into the bar, cowboy hats and boots, dark glasses and their star badges shiny-bright where they’re pinned to the men’s leather and cowhide jackets. Kate can tell instantly that the eldest of the two is the one in charge; he’s all white hair and old man hands with a bow-legged step. His partner can’t be that much older than Kate herself, tex-mex skin and dressed all in black.

“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” the leader says when he catches her attention. “Might you know where I’d find a Katherine Fuller at?”

“You’re speakin’ to her.” She eyes him like he's offered her a bad deal.

“Much obliged. My name is Earl McGraw, and this here is my partner, Federico Gonzalez. We’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened last night at the scene of Ms. Johnson’s murder.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She’s never seen the rangers get involved in a local case. If they pass through town it’s just to get a drink, not investigate a murder. It’s weird. She gets her sections covered and sits with the officers at the bar, offers 'em a pop on the house just to earn their good favor and get things over with.

They go into the top twenty of police procedural bullcrap, why was she there, what did she do first, was anyone else there, did Libby have a boyfriend, was the door unlocked, who was worried about Libby, did she often not show up to work, did Libby do drugs, did _Kate_ do drugs, how did Rafa get there, why would he be there, how long did they wait before they called the police, did she touch anything, why did she go into the bathroom.

Kate answers the questions as diligently as she can without making fun of him. It isn't easy, not with that ten-gallon hat.

“So I hear ya’ll got a new culebra in town,” McGraw asks, finally cutting to the chase.

She rolls her eyes, has been ready for this line of questioning all day. “Richie didn’t do it.”

“So, you’re on a first name basis with him?”

“He’s just a person.”

“He’s a culebra.” McGraw looks put out that she’d think anything but negative of them.  
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say our state troopers are a lit’le bit racist,” she says, making him shift in his seat; Gonzalez casts his glance elsewhere and sips anxiously on his Dr. Pepper.

“With all due respect, ma’am, culebras ain’t a race, they’re a different species,” McGraw defends, thinks he has himself a real ringer of an argument until Kate says, “So are dogs, but I can see the hair on your shirt which tells me you like them anyways.” The Rangers aren't the only ones who have been observing.

“Dogs are different than snakes,” McGraw says low and steady, like he’s somebody’s daddy trying to lay down the rules for the dinner table.

“How so?”

He doesn’t have an answer besides they’re scarier, because they hiss and strike instead of bark and bite, really she thinks it’s just because snakes don't have fur that most aren't fond of them.

“Yeah, and you look scarier than me, but I bet you I could make someone piss their pants before you do,” she’s looking right at McGraw with a cherry pie smile and her hair curled round her fingers.

Gonzalez finally opens his mouth instead of letting McGraw do all the talking. “The incident report says you seemed calm at the scene, why is that?”

She grimaces. “I wasn’t _calm_. I was freaked out.” It’s the truth, to a certain degree. When she has a vision barely feels in control of her body anymore.

“You were covered in blood.” His tone is firm and she does not like the implications of it.

“I told you I got hit with a piece of _skin_ in the _face_ when I turned the fan on.”

“Why didn’t you run?”

“What if she wasn’t dead?” It’s a lie she comes up with quick, she’d known better than to go further into a crime scene, of course, but she doesn't plan to tell them that.

“Pretty brave of you, checking on her.”

“Yeah. And I slipped on the bathroom floor and got covered in even more blood for my heroics. Rewarding.”

Gonzalez does not back down from her sarcasm. “This Richie fella, he know where you were going last night?”

“Why the heck would he?”

“You seemed pretty quick to defend him, sounds like he’s a close friend.”

She’s straight appalled by what he’s hinting. “I ain’t sleepin’ with him if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. My friend is _dead_ and I found her all torn up like that and now I’m gettin’ the third degree for it? You know what, I’m done talkin’ without a lawyer.”

Gonzalez and McGraw look at each other nervously.

Finally McGraw says, “That won’t be necessary, Ms. We’ve gotten what we need from you. Your boss around so we can confirm stories?”

“In back,” Kate snaps.

Sticks her tongue out after them when they head towards Rafa’s office, annoyed they’re so quick to judge things they don’t understand.

She goes back to taking care of her sections, which are hectic. Jessie is off of work the next couple of days to grieve, so Kate had her hours cut back at the grocery store to cover. When the rangers finally leave she’s glad; Gonzalez tips his hat towards her in respect and she only nods at him, she’s still mad he accused her of banging the first culebra to cross her path.

The sun begins to lower outside and that’s when aforementioned walks in. He’s still dressed like a door-to-door preacher, hair perfect from his pomade and those coke-bottle lens glasses that hide and widen his eyes all the same. He sits in the same place he did the first time. Her section, she knows he knows.

The pure sight of him breezing-in like a James Dean wannabe makes her heart throb, if only a little. She feels like a child again, so enamoured by something shiny and new. But, God, there’s such a pull to him.

She hesitates before going to his table.

He looks up at her when she approaches and _smiles_ . _The nerve_ , she thinks. He doesn’t come back for all this time after all the bullshit she went through with that drainer for him, he tasted her _blood_ and just went off the grid. _Now,_ he shows, right after Libby is murdered and everyone is itching to hang him for it.

When she gets to his table the first thing she says is, “You idiot.”

He raises a brow at her. “Nice to see you again, too.”

“Don’t you know what happened?”

“No.”

The question mark of an expression he wears makes her almost believe him. _Almost_. “Meet me out back in five minutes,” she says.

She fills out the orders of awaiting customers, watches out of the corner of his eye as he stands and goes like he was never here; refills ketchup bottles and soda cups for a few more minutes before she another waitress know that she’s gonna take her fifteen minute break. She goes out the back and finds Richie by the dumpster smoking a cigarette. It’s humid even though the sun has gone down; she smells like rapidly expiring deodorant and an excess of floral scented perfume to compensate.

“What’s this all about?” Richie asks; he offers her a Lucky again.

She takes it. “A woman was murdered. Brutally.”

“How bad?” He tries to light it for her but she goes on the offensive, puts her hand up and he looks mildly hurt when he hands her the zippo.

She lights and puffs, says around the filter, “Bad. Trust me, I’m the one that found the body.”

His interest perks as she hands the lighter back. “How so?”

“She was my coworker. She’s been missing.”

“What happened?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t fuck around and kill humans for nothing.”

“You tasted me.”

He scoffs, “Barely. You’re delicious, by the way. Just my type, AB.”

Her cheeks heat. “You already said that, and it’s besides the point. Her heart was cut out, Richie. She was skinned for the most part, what was left was painted blue.”

He looks at his feet; she feels strong for making a culebra nervous.

“You know what that means.”

He glances at her like a shy boy. “Mayan sacrifice, probably. Aztec, whatever.”

“No shit.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“For some reason, I believe you. But then, who did? She was ripped apart.” He must see the fear in Kate’s eyes, the memories of Libby’s last breath. “I feel like there’s more to it.”

“Sorta dumb for you to be standing so close to something you’re not one-hundred percent about. Ain’t it?”

“Sometimes I can... _see_ things, you didn’t do it, even if maybe you could,” she says, doesn’t know why she’s admitting it to him of all people.

He looks like he’s been waiting for her to say that. “What did she tell you?”

“That they’re coming for me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. It’s the same thing ev’ry time I dream. I see people die, but I can’t find nothin’ to prove me right ‘bout it. Most people here just think I’m nuts.”

“But you know better?”

“Why do you believe me?”

“I got bit by a beautiful woman over a hundred years ago and it turned me into a snake; I drink blood to live forever. Trust me, your gift isn’t that weird.”

She hesitates. “I wouldn’t call it a gift.”

“What then?”

“A curse.”

“You have to be thankful for what you receive.”

She evades his sudden sincerity, even if it might just be him playing her false,“Knew you were a man of God, wearing that suit an all.”

He smooths out his lapels. “I feel it makes me look more respectable.”

“Maybe you should watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.”

“I thought most people around here don’t like queers.”

“They take scripture too seriously.”

“And you don’t, preacher’s daughter?” he lets out a thick smoke ring, it curls around her face and she waves it away.

“How did you know that?”

“Google.”

“You looked me up?”

“Think I’m too old to use the internet?”

Her lips feel chapped around the filter between them. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Physically? Not enough to be your dad. More like a brother, sister christian.” He’s smiling like he thinks he’s cute for the quip.

She sighs. “I mean how long have you been _alive_?”

“I’m not alive.”

“Do you like irritating me?”

“Kind of.”

She glares at him.

“One-hundred and sixty. This year.”

“That’s not so bad, for an immortal.”

“Glad you think so.”

They’re silent for a long moment.

“So I guess I should anticipate a visit from the rangers,” Richie finally says.

“Who do you think could’ve done this if not you? I mean, her throat was ripped out. She was skinned alive before they cut out her heart.”

“Did you hear her screaming?”

Kate goes on defense. “Buzz off, Hannibal Lecter.”

His smile is sly. “I knew you were special.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his head. “I still get to have a few secrets.”

“Not when someone’s dead.”

“You sound like the rangers.”

“She was my friend.”

“You don’t seem like you have many friends.”

“Insulting me will get you nowhere.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She’s getting more than a bit fed-up with him; he’s condescending when he has no right. She wants to tell him that just because he could kill her with a snap of the fingers does not make him superior; it just makes him less moral.

Her cell phone beeps then, Scott’s name popping up as a text header on the screen. Today is the day he and Clarence headed for San Angelo. Kate’s okay with them going alone on the compromise Scott texts her once every few hours just in case.

 _Made it here fine_ , the latest bulletin says.

“Who’s that?” Richie asks, she knows he was reading the screen.

“My husband,” she answers.

He frowns. “Bullshit.”

She rolls her eyes, lets smoke out her nose. “My brother. He went to San Angelo with a friend. He’s still a minor, technically, so I get rights to make him let me know what’s up.”

“You let a minor go to a culebra’s rights rally alone? How modern.”

“A _what_?”

“They’re holding a rights parade tonight in San Angelo for culebras. It’s been planned for over two months.”

Kate’s heart fills with instant fear and rage. “That little son of a bitch…”

“You’re talking about your mother too, y’know?”

“She’s dead, so what does it matter?”

Richie shakes his head. “You really didn’t know?”

“He said he was going with his friend to get video games. He _promised_ me he wouldn’t look for trouble.”

She sends him multiple frantic, angry texts asking him where he is, what he’s doing, to send a picture of the video game store; he receives all of them and buffers with a lie, telling her to calm down. Her next reply is she knows what he’s actually there for, that he’s in big trouble, he receives them, the reply bubble pops up with ellipses, he’s trying to get out of this, she knows, he tried to do the same thing when she caught him and Clarence smoking pot in the basement a few months ago (she’d rather walk in on him getting high again than know he’s with snakes), but he’s an awful liar and couldn’t get out of that one either; the bubble disappears because he knows he’s been caught, flat out doesn’t reply.

“He’s what, seventeen, eighteen?” Richie asks; Kate nods in answer. “Yeah, he isn’t gonna tell you the truth.”

“I’m so stupid. He could get in so much trouble if he ends up in the wrong place there.” She texts Scott that he’s grounded for a year if he doesn’t answer her, it’s seen but, again, no reply.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’re wary of my kind.”

“You _don’t_ know any better, because I am.”

“Yet you believe I didn’t kill your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

She stamps out her cigarette, calls Scott and it goes straight to voicemail.

“Damnit.”

“Want to check on him?” he flicks his burned filter into the brush.

“Yes,” Kate says.

“I’ll drive you.”

She hesitates.

“Don’t want to be alone with a blood-sucker?”

“No,” she admits.

“Scout’s honor, I’ll be good.”

She thinks about the fact that she doesn’t get paid until next Friday and has less than thirty dollars in the bank. “Fine, but only if I don’t owe you gas money.”

“I take all forms of tender.” He stops behind her, when she looks he coughs and points at the tailgate of Rafa’s rusted out pick-up, the bumper sticker says ‘nobody rides for free: gas, ass, or grass’, “doesn’t look like you partake of the herb, guess that only leaves one thing.”

“Puh-lease, that’s not even yours.”

“Oh no?”

“Something black and fast, maybe a little flashy. That’s what you drive.”

He hits the button on his key ring, a Camaro at the end of the row of parked cars flashes its lights.

“I have to tell Rafa,” she says.

“He’ll just let you take off early?”

“If I ask, yeah,” she says.

“Only ‘cause you’re a nice piece of ass,” Richie answers; it makes her think of the man that attacked him the other night and how she saved _his_ ass, she’s disgusted.

“You don’t have to be so goddamn crude,” she says, goes back into the bar and heads towards Rafa’s office.

He’s inside doing paperwork like usual, she knocks only softly and he welcomes her in with a smile. When she got to work this afternoon he acted so calm with her, so patient. She knows he feels awful she had to see what she did last night, about how he gave her shit about Kyle, wants to be a _man_ that protects her because he thinks she’s cute. In a way it ain’t so bad, in another she wishes she could tell him to calm down.

She barely feels bad when she lies and says she doesn’t think she can make it through the night after all, all the questions from the rangers have made her think of Libby, it’s all she sees when she shuts her eyes, she tells him.

She begs off his walk towards her, arms opening as if to hug her, some kind gentle gesture that makes her insincerity seedy. Sometimes it’s better to express affection without contact; he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of not personal space necessarily, but when too much is too much. She won’t hold it against him, but she won’t hug him back, either.

“I’m just going to head out, ok?”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s okay, I have one.”

“Scott?”

Kate pauses, too long, she hasn’t got a lie or leg to stand on, and then she fumbles with an answer, “Kyle, Kyle’s on patrol, he said it’s on his route.”

Rafa looks hurt, angry. Then it’s gone. “Good, at least he’s got a gun right?”

“Yeah…”

“You gonna leave your car in the lot tonight?”

“If you don’t mind?”

“Not a bit, missionary.”

She almost feels sick for having conned him. “Goodnight, Rafa. Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Y’know.”

He smiles at her, but it’s wounded. “Sometimes, I really don’t, Katerina.”

She goes back out feeling like she’s got a lock shoved in her chest. She was raised better than to lie, it’s a sin, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Richie is waiting for her in the parking lot in his car; the A/C is already on when she gets into the passenger seat, cab nice and cold. “Won’t you freeze to death?” she jokes.

“Not with your company.”

He pulls out of the lot and onto Main Street, headed for the interstate.

“I’m so fucking mad at him,” Kate says as she tries to call Scott again; it goes straight to voicemail like the last time.

“I understand.”

“You had younger siblings?”

“No, I _have_ an older brother.”

“Is he a culebra too?”

“He’s just a dick.”

She knows better than to ask him to elaborate.

“Falling out?” is all she asks. He nods.

They are silent for a portion of the drive. He pushes the speed limit and she’s thankful for it. She’s worried about Scott.

Finally the silence is too much and she’s drowning in her anxiety.

“You said you’re one-hundred and sixty, so you were born in what, eighteen, fifty...five?”

“Roughly,” he says. “The winter of or after. My parents didn’t bother to keep track.”

“When were you turned?” she asks.

“Summer of eighteen eighty-two.”

“Were you a cowboy?”

His expression twists. “I guess you could say that.”

“Why’d you change?”

“I was dying.”

“Who changed you?”

“Her name isn’t important. She went off on her own a long time ago. Time to be free, I guess,” his tone is emotionless, like what he’s saying means nothing to him.

“Free?”

“For a long time it was just her and me. But, before that there was someone else for her, we’ve all got baggage. What’s that thing everyone says now? ‘Do you’? She’s off doing herself.”

“What about your brother?”

“He didn’t agree with me being a monster.”

“I understand.”

“Really?” He doesn’t look cross, more interested than anything.

Her gaze focuses on the scenery blurring by out the window. “My brother doesn’t believe me when I tell him I see things.”

“He just doesn’t want to believe it. It’s weird for people who need you to be normal when everything else is falling apart.”

“Who said I was a trainwreck?”

“I saw you bleeding that first night, Kate. No one had to say it aloud.”

“You think you’ve got me all figured out?”

“I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.”

They are quiet again until they reach San Angelo.

Kate calls Scott again when they park in a random Kahuna Burger off the main street the rally is taking place on. _Finally,_ he picks up after the third ring.

“I know you lied. I’m here, where are you?”

“You’re such a snoop.”

“Don’t _fuck_ with me, Scott. Where are you?”

“By the lemon-shakeup stand.”

“ _Scott_.”

“No really, they have one.”

“Stay there.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I’m serious.”

“You gonna ground me if I don’t?”

“You’re being a spoiled brat.”

“Look who’s talking, homecoming queen.”

“Stay. There.” She ends the call and barely stops herself from throwing her cell.

Richie gets her door for her. “It’d be more productive if we split up. Give me your phone number so I can let you know if I find him first.”

“You don’t even know what he looks like.”

“This is where you supply said information.”

She scowls at him. “He’s about a head taller than me. Thin. Tan skin. Black hair.”

“Specific.”

“He’ll be with a white kid that looks like he idolizes the guys from Columbine. And he’s Asian. Like Bruce Lee.”

“You don’t look Asian.”

“Very astute of you to notice. No, I am not Asian.”

“Then why’s your brother?”

“He’s adopted, Sherlock.”

“Huh,” Richie says, pulls out his iPhone-- it’s weird seeing someone who’s so old using it so proficiently; her great grandma made it to ninety-three and couldn’t use technology worth a shit. “So, number?”

She gives it to him, he sends her a text of a winky-face so she can save his number, too.

They walk together towards the main street, human and culebra. In Bethel, this would be weird. Here, they blend in. Culebras and humans alike crowd the streets, rallying for freedom. Kate hasn’t seen anything like it her entire life.

“I never realized there were so many of you,” Kate says, in awe.

“Snakes are good at hiding under rocks.” His tone is almost bitter.

They break apart to look for the lemon shake-up stand, Richie covering the east and Kate covering the west.

Everything is a haze; she moves anxiously, brushing by bodies, some human, some not, her senses on high alert; not all of the culebras are like Richie, she can _see_ the darkness underneath. This world feels unfamiliar to her, uncomfortable. The streets smell like sweat, lavender, graveyard soil. Vendors call here and there, activists shout and throw up signs. Various news casters zoom in and out. There’s fireworks, music, a steady bass in the ground.

She finds the stand first; spies Scott and Clarence, the man they’re talking to, a culebra, and it’s not Richie. The creature is dressed like the rangers, only more elaborate, boots with spurs, dark jeans, a rancher coat and hat. His skin is tanned, his hair dark, his goatee is villain approved. And his eyes… Kate stares at him with sudden alert. She feels something stir inside of her, and though she can’t hear what this culebra is thinking, she knows she needs to get him away from her brother.

“Scott!” she says, shoving her way up between the snake and her brother, the former being _too close_.

“Kate,” Scott snaps, embarrassed at what she just did. “We were talking!”

“Oops, silly me.”

“It is quite alright,” the culebra says with a raspy Spanish accent. He’s staring at her acutely, not bothering to hide it. Undead or not, Kate puffs up her chest; her protective instinct gives her courage. “You must be Katherine, Scott’s sister.”

“I am,” Kate says. “Who are you?”

“Carlos,” the culebra says, holding out his hand, clad in a black leather glove.

Kate shakes it as not to cause any trouble, but she can tell he’s trying to hurt her as he squeezes her hand tighter than needed; she holds his eyes and squeezes back.

“Carlos was telling us about how we can get involved in the American Culebra League as supporters,” Clarence says then, and he looks giddy.

“These two young men seem very interested in helping my kind fight for our rights among humans,” Carlos smiles, and her gaze narrows.

“Can we apply online?”

“Most certainly. Although, I was going to have the boys come with me to sign up right now. You’re welcome to join, of course.”

She shakes her head. “I’d prefer we sign up online.”

“Kate!” Scott hisses; she turns to look at him with a warning glance and, thankfully, he shuts up.

“Ah, I understand. We all fear what we do not understand.”

“Not me!” Clarence says. “I think you guys are awesome!”

Carlos grins thinly. “Well, I do hope to see you all at our next meeting in this subchapter. Please, call if you have any questions.” He hands Scott a business card before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.

“What’d you do that for?” Scott snarls at her when they’re alone.

She looks at him and frowns. “I didn’t like him.”

“You just don’t like culebras! You’ve never even met one before and you didn’t give him a chance!” Scott says.

“Well...” she says, scratching the back of her head. She never told him about Richie, didn’t feel like getting teased.

“Well what?” Scott scowls.

She texts Richie then that she’s found him, and within thirty seconds he’s there at her side out of nowhere; she knew culebras were fast, but this is a whole new level seeing it up close. Scott’s eyes go wide when he registers their newest undead visitor.

“Holy shit, he _does_ look like Bruce Lee,” Richie says.

“Excuse me?”

“Hey, I’m Richie,” he holds out his hand to Scott, who looks at it uncertainly. “I’m a friend of your sister’s.”

“No way, Kate doesn’t associate with culebras.”

“I’m hurt you didn’t tell him about…” his smile is sinister and she glares until he finishes the sentence with. “Me,” instead of ‘ _us’_.

She stutters. “It wasn’t relevant.”

“So you can go off and be a scream queen, tell me all about finding a dead body when I’m trying to eat my fucking cereal, but you don’t think to say, ‘hey, by the way, bro, we got a culebra in town and I’m friends with him now’? Real nice, sis.”

“I didn’t think he’d show back up,” she admits.

Scott shakes his head. “Whatever.”

“Look who’s talking, you little liar,” Kate snaps. “I thought you were coming here to get _video games_. And you--” she turns to point accusingly at Clarence who shrinks back from it-- “wait till I tell your mom.”

“Awe, c’mon Kate, we were just--”

“You were just talking to a culebra you don’t know!”

“So were you!” Scott accuses. “You showed up here with him!”

“In my defense,” Richie says, “she doesn’t like me very much for the most part. I get on her nerves.”

“He does,” she says.

“So what you’re saying is my culebra was cooler?”

“Richie’s not _my_ culebra, and that _weirdo_ wasn’t yours.”

“You two are idiots for coming out here alone. Easy pickings. You should’ve kept a better guard, Tokyo Drift,” Richie says.

“I’m Asian, not Japanese. So was Bruce Lee.”

“I’m neither,” Clarence says.

“Fascinating,” Richie snorts.

“We’re going home,” Kate says.

“We just got here!” Scott whines.

“You should’ve thought about that before you lied. What are you, ten? You could’ve just asked me.”

“Like you would’ve let me come!”

“Not alone.”

“That’s bullshit. You would’ve never gone for this.”

“It doesn’t matter, Scott!”

“You worried your sister a lot, y’know,” Richie inputs. “You should feel some remorse for that.”

Scott looks like he feels none. “Whatever. Let’s just go.”

It stings when his hate for her shows so evidently; even after all they’ve been through he still resents her.

She sighs. “Where are you parked?”

“By the gas station a few blocks up,” Clarence says.

“We’ll walk you to the car.”

“I don’t need a babysitter!”

“Apparently you do!”

The walk to the car is spent in silence, Richie flanking her as she marches the two teen delinquents towards Clarence’s car, sending a strongly worded text to his mother about exactly what her son has been up to today. If it were any other incident where their lives weren’t at stake, she would’ve let it go, like she did with the pot bullcrap. But she’s not going to be easy on them this time; she knows Scott will hate her for it, but he can’t be stupid like this. Culebras are still a new species, she knows there’s secrets they’re keeping, Richie’s evidence enough of that. It’s worth taking her little brother’s resentment over letting him become some Mexican snake’s snack pack.

“Drive straight home,” Kate says.

“We’ll follow them to make sure,” Richie assures.

“Whatever,” Scott answers, his word of the night.

They shut the doors just as Clarence gets a call from his mother-- Kate can see the sudden fear on his face as he answers-- there’s muffled yelling from the other line and Clarence’s stammered apologies, Scott is glaring at her out the window.

“How are we gonna catch up with them?” Kate asks as she and Richie head towards his car nearly three blocks away.

“That’s why I have a fast car, Kate.”

She rolls her eyes. They make it back to the car and somehow he manages to smooth cruise his way through the flooded streets, take the highway exit and catch up to the boys in less than five minutes. Scott flips them off.

“Delightful brother you have there,” Richie says.

“Our mom just died, cut him some slack.”

“I don’t remember Seth being such a shit when ours kicked it.”

“Seth?”

“My dick brother.”

“Were you born in Texas?”

“Near Kansas or Nebraska, state lines changed a bit so I’m not really sure.”

“So how’d you end up in Bethel?”

He’s quiet a long moment before he says, “I don’t know, felt like an okay place to stop.”

“That sounds like something that someone who sacrifices people would say.”

“Coming from the girl that corpses talk to.”

“Well, it’s not exactly like that most of the time. I mean, that hasn’t happened before. Usually I just dream bad stuff, not find it.”

“Maybe you were meant to find her.”

“Well that sucks, ‘cause I really didn’t want to.”

“We can’t oppress the gifts we’ve been given, Kate. We have to embrace them. It makes us more powerful.” He’s looking right at her in that intense way of his, like he’s waiting for something, she doesn’t understand what he wants from her.

Looks away, can’t meet his eye anymore. “I don’t want power, I want peace.”

“So, it’s a regular Saint I’m dealing with here?”

“Just ‘cause I’m a preacher’s daughter doesn’t mean you always gotta make biblical references.”

“Doesn’t it though? What are we if we don’t realize our own mortality?”

“That makes no sense, mainly because you don’t die.” She finally looks at him again and is glad to see his focus is completely on the road.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You could chop my head off or stake me in the heart, hell, just throw me into the sun and I’ll be gone.”

“But you’re stronger than me.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m smarter.”

“I’m surprised you’d say something like that. You seem like a total narcissist.”

“Well, I mean in general I’m probably smarter than you, but not in every way,” he smirks.

She shakes her head and switches on the radio. “Maybe I should just stake you.”

“At least use lube first.” He winks at her.

She’s grossed out into silence. The drive back takes longer because Clarence is going fifteen under the limit, probably afraid to go home and be face-to-face with his seething mother. By the time they make it back to town limits Kate’s practically asleep in the passenger seat, doesn’t even hear the sirens until Richie is pulling over on the side of the road.

“The hell?” she opens her eyes blearily, it’s freezing cold in the car.

“Guess the feds got my plates already,” he says, red-blue lights painting the side of his face from behind them. “Didn’t you mention they wanna talk to me?”

She pales. “Oh.”

The officer that pulled them over comes up to Richie’s window then and taps on it with one knuckle lightly; Richie looks overly irritated as he rolls down the glass pane. The beam of a flashlight comes through, then Kyle’s head pokes into view and Kate feels her stomach drop, because this is exactly what she didn’t need tonight.

“Can I have your license and registration please, sir,” Kyle monologues as part of the skit. His eyes drift over to Kate and bug. “Katie, what are you doin’ here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work? Is everything _okay_?” He looks panicked, she knows it must seem strange considering Richie’s the lead suspect in the murder case by default, and she’s the one that found the body they’re charging him with in the first place.

“I’m fine, Kyle. Richie’s just givin’ me a ride home.”

“Is there something wrong with your car?” He’s staring only at Richie, has the flashlight right on his face, trying to measure him up.

“Yeah, it needs a new battery.”

“Why didn’t you jump it?”

“We, uh, tried, but it didn’t work.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyle says, she knows he doesn’t buy it. He swivels the flashlight towards her. “So you hitch a ride with the guy who bites people and drinks their blood to survive? No offense.”

Richie grins smug, his teeth bright. “That’s what’s great about girls, you don’t need to bite them if they’re on the rag.”

Kyle is visibly insulted. His chest puffs and he stands a little taller. “Now sir, listen here, that’s no way to talk to in front of a la--”

“No, you listen,” Richie says. He raises his left hand up towards Kyle’s face, palm out, it happens fast enough to shock him and he reaches for his gun, telling Richie to put his hands down. “Listen to what I’m saying, Kyle,” Richie commands, Kyle looks at his upraised hand and stills, suddenly.

Kate leans over into Richie’s side, trying to see what’s going on, Kyle all slack-jawed and his eyes nearly marbleized.

“You didn’t see us here tonight,” Richie says, and Kyle nods.

Kate leans farther and she _sees_ it then, the way Richie’s got control of Kyle, there’s an eye in his palm, a _real_ god _damn_ human _eyeball_ that blinks and moves as it holds Kyle’s gaze, keeping him hooked like a meat puppet on strings.

“Richie, what are you _doin_ ’?” Kate hisses.

He doesn’t answer her. “You’re gonna go back to your car and forget any of this happened, and if you see me again you’re going to look the other way like I was never even there. Understand?”

Kyle nods.

“Are you hurting him?” Kate whispers weakly.

“No,” Richie says. “He won’t remember any of this once we leave and he’ll continue on with his life like normal.”

Kate is terrified, confused, but she doesn’t tell him to put his hand down; she knows Richie didn’t kill Libby and the cops are just wasting their time on him. If he wants to throw them off his trail, fine. As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. She’d rather they not be in her business for hanging out with him anyways.

“Can you...can you tell him to tell Rafa that he drove me home if he asks?”

“You heard the lady,” Richie says, Kyle nods, Kate isn't Catholic but she feels like she should go to confession for it. “Now leave.”

At that, Kyle turns on his heel and walks back to the cruiser; he turns off the lights and pulls away quietly. Richie puts his hand down and Kate blinks.

“What was that?” she asks as Richie switches the car back into drive.

“My secret superpower,” he says.

“Can all culebras do that?”

“No. We’ve all got something unique to us and our talents.”

“Oh,” she says, thinks back to how obscene he was just moments before and adds, “my period is none of your business, by the way.” The fact that he knew, could probably  _smell_ it this entire time is beyond embarrassing.

“My mistake miss southern rules, Cosmo says an orgasm helps with cramps and a bad attitude though, just F.Y.I..”

“You’re a true friend to feminism,” she scoffs, mildly disgusted.

“I’m a real champion of the female orgasm.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

“Want me to show you?”

She thinks of her dream, the one with a lover made of shadows and fangs. “No, thanks.”

She directs him back to her house, once there she calls Scott. He confirms he’s already inside and hangs up before she can even get a word in. She looks up at the house where the living room light is on and wonders if their dad knows about any of this, or even cares. “I don’t want to deal with Scott being a bitch all night.”

“Brothers suck,” Richie says.

“Yeah, but, not really. I mean he’s a pain in the ass, but I still love him. Don’t you miss Seth at all?”

She turns to face him only to find there’s barely a breath between them, he’s all up in her personal space again, she can see the sea blue of his eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “You remembered his name,” he says quietly, there’s something soft to his expression.

“It’s...it’s important.” She can smell his aftershave and pomade, cigarette smoke on his collar and something else, earthy and old and magic, she should be afraid to be this close to someone so unlike her, but she isn’t.

“Do you only have bad dreams?” Richie asks, he’s searching for something in her but she doesn’t know what to give him.

 _You tell me._ She wants to reply.

She doesn’t really know who kisses who first; it’s soft and fleeting, it’s been so long since she’s kissed anyone she doesn’t even know if this counts. He pulls away first to look at her and she sees things older than the both of them, older than time in his gaze. The world feels hazy and slow, when he says her name and leans back in her lips are already parted, welcoming. This kiss is longer, more urgent. There’s something he wants to tell her but he’s not allowed to, he grabs her round the wrists and leaves indents with blunt nails, she feels the skin starting to split as his tongue licks her bottom lip-- all of it lasts only a few seconds before he’s pulling away from her, straightens tall in his seat and becomes a statue.

“Goodnight, Kate.” He isn’t looking at her, but out the windshield instead, like she no longer exists next to him.

Something about it makes her heart ache. “Goodnight, Richard.” If he wants to be granite she will be steel, pulls open the passenger door and steps out into the rapidly cooling night.

He at least waits until she’s got the front door unlocked before driving away; she shuts it behind her and switches the bolt into place, turns the porch light on, it feels like her lungs are going to fall through her and onto the floor.

“So now I see why you like _this_ culebra,” Scott says, shocking her. She looks up and he’s sitting on the stairs, glaring at her. He points at her mouth and there’s blood on her lip, nicked again.

She hides her face behind her hair. “Where’s dad?”

“Who cares.”

“He’s still our dad, Scott.”

“You need to grow up, Kate,” he says, and it shocks her. “Stop living in fantasy.”

She’s instant to anger. “Yeah? So if I’m playing make-believe all day, who’s paying the bills?”

“You’re not paying all of them,” he says; she winces because he isn’t supposed to know that they’re struggling, that shouldn’t be his problem to deal with. “You should’ve just taken off a long time ago like you wanted to. I’m not your burden.”

“No, you’re my _brother_.”

“You’ve never understood me.”

“I’m trying.”

He shakes his head, stands. “Not very hard.”

“Scott,” she tries, but he turns his back on her and goes to bed.

She checks on her father before turning out the light; she dreams of blackness and the sensation of being swallowed whole, _he_ gives her one night to drown in her own fear instead of his.

Wakes up in the morning to the sound of Scott’s alarm going off, he doesn’t hit snooze. She shuffles out of bed and knocks on his door softly, there’s no answer so she lets herself in. The floor is messy as usual, stray clothes and comic books she has to jump over as she moves towards the lump on the bed to shake him awake. Only when she touches it there’s just softness, no sleeping brother; she pulls back the blankets and tries not to scream when she finds the blood underneath, a large pool that’s soaking into the mattress.

She turns frantically about the room but finds nothing else, no evident trail leading in or out. But she notices the window is open and that the screen has been ripped out. When she checks the sill there’s a single red drop on the sill, and she knows deep in the pit of her stomach that someone’s taken Scott.

There’s traces of fear left in every inch of the room, she can feel it pulsing from the floorboards into her feet. He tried to struggle but it all happened so _quick_ , and when he was going to scream there was just _pain_ and _red_ ; she puts her hands in the blood puddle on the bed and she hears her name, whispered in a plea to save him; there’s jaundice yellow eyes and the sting of fangs, he remembers the sound of the spurs on the culebra’s boots, and she does too.

 _Carlos_.

She remembers that culebra that had such a keen interest in her brother last night, how she hadn’t liked his scales, and she wonders how she could have been so _stupid_ as not to _see_ . How she hadn’t looked close enough to know what he wanted-- _Scott_ . She doesn’t understand why, doesn’t need to, all she knows is that that _snake_ has her brother, and he isn’t afraid to spill blood.

  
  


 

 


	3. Nancy Drew

 

 

The world is chaos after she finds her brother’s bed bloody and empty.

_Help, Kate, help me._

She can hear him in her head, he’d been so frightened, so desperate he’d forgotten how mad he’s grown at her over the years, all the fighting and arguments like pulling teeth, but his last thought before he’d passed out had been of when they were little and he’d fallen out of a tree, broken his arm, she carried him into the house so he didn’t have to be alone while she got help, and that scares her.

Something inside of her snaps in panic, the world flashes in and out of focus before she becomes hyperaware of her surroundings, the room smells like a snakepit and she can’t think straight.

The screaming starts after, she doesn’t really know what she’s screaming about, it’s more meaningless sound than anything as she runs through the house searching for any sign of her brother. She trips over and crashes into things that fall, clattering to the floor in a mess of breaking glass and ceramic, the house a place of volatile sounds.

She tries to call Richie because he’s the first person she thinks of needing; Scott’s alarm is still buzzing in the background as she calls the false prophet but the line rings once and goes straight to voicemail and it isn’t even his voice just a machine telling her to leave a message after the tone. Her vision stings, it’s too much, it’s all too much. She calls again and, still, he doesn’t answer.

She throws the phone, already running down the stairs and out of the back door, scanning the property on hands and knees for blood, carnage, for anything she can feel, but besides Scott’s room it’s clean, she’s back inside without a thought of what to do next, losing focus as the shadows swarm around her, she remembers Libby talking to her with half a mouth, the stench and rot of the body, there’s blood all over her again and she screams, rubbing frantically at it, needing to get it off of her. Libby’s trying to grab her and pull her into the darkness with hands like talons, and she knows she’ll never see her brother again.

Not the way he used to be.

Her terrified shouts for help are what wake her father, he comes, stumbling down the stairs in a hungover stupor, looking at her like she’s been possessed, and maybe she has for all she knows. There’s no clarity to her perception, she sees demons in the walls and blood leaking from the ceiling and Libby’s inside of her head condemning her for not _listening_.

“Kate, Katie, what’s going on?” Her father catches her at the edge of the living room, he shakes her, calming her into reality, looking at her wildly and it’s then she realizes that there _is_ actually blood on her. It stains her arms and nightgown, half her face, her father must think it’s from her, she realizes, by the look in his eyes, sudden inexplicable sobriety and it transfers. She has only a fraction of enough composure to get out, “Scott,” and, “missing.” before the dark starts to settle again.

He lets go of her almost violently, it’s one of the first real exertions of will she’s seen her father have in years, it hurts her heart and she doubles over in the middle, dry-heaving as she hears Carlos’ boot spurs jingle in her memory as guilt assails her. She can hardly breathe, falls to her knees and sobs for air, everything too foggy for her to even try and feel for her brother, to know if he’s alive.

There’d been so much blood.

She prays silently for someone, anyone to hear her and help, to absolve her and fix this. _It isn’t fair_ , she thinks. _This wasn’t supposed to be our life._

Her father calls 9-1-1.

The world seems to calm and sway, the high after an adrenaline rush. She’s still panicked but it seems to be behind a layer of glass, like the way she’d felt the other night after finding Libby. There’s a rational sort of logic to her mind again, and she starts thinking about what she’s going to say happened, how she has to tell them it was all her fault.

It’s not Frost and all the dicks that show up like she expected, but the Rangers and one E.M.T.. She wonders if they intercepted the call, if they’d been waiting for a slip-up since they talked to her yesterday. She thinks about what happened with Richie the night before, what they did to Kyle and it makes her nervous to let them inside; stays still as her father answers the door and thinks vaguely about leaving before they have a chance to question her.

The rangers don’t approach her right away, it’s the E.M.T. first to make sure she isn’t injured, to check her mental state. The shadows have receded enough for her to lie her way through the exam, to hold her arms out and let the blood be swabbed for evidence while the Rangers talk to her father who’s returned to his previous state of non-usefulness.

It’s Gonzalez who comes to interview her while McGraw goes upstairs to start inspecting the crime scene. “I’m so sorry, Miss Fuller.”

She sneers at his pity. “Don’t act like he’s dead.”

Gonzalez remains composed as he asks, “Before we start, is there anyone I can call for you, to help?” He glances between her and where her father is sitting helplessly on the sofa.

She shakes her head. The first name that comes to mind is Rafa, but she’s pretty sure what she helped Richie do to Kyle last night to cover for her is a federal offense. Selfishly, she wants Rafa’s comfort, but more than anything she has to help Scott, and she can’t do that from inside a jail cell.

“Can we talk about what happened last night before Scott went missing, then?” Gonzalez asks.

“Richie didn’t do it,” she says before he has a chance to ask.

He perks his brow suspiciously. “Oh yeah, and how’s it you know that?”

She sighs, trying to think of how to paraphrase it so she can leave the interaction with Kyle out. Tells him about talking to Richie about Libby, knowing he didn’t do it, how Richie helped her figure out Scott had lied about going to buy a video game and gone to the rally instead. “And that’s where I saw _Carlos_.”

“Carlos?”

“The culebra who took my brother,” she says, matter of fact. Recounts the culebra’s interaction with her and Scott, how focussed his eyes had been on the latter. “Look in Scott’s jeans from last night, the ones with the holes in the knees. There’s a business card from him in the pocket.”

Gonzalez looks at her with wide eyes after taking the whole story in, he’s about to ask another question but hesitates, thinks better than to argue with a sister’s intuition and goes upstairs where McGraw’s still casing the scene; comes back down with the jeans in question, holding them out for her to inspect. She digs through the pockets and finds the business card that the snake gave her brother, she can feel the venom on it as she and the ranger looks it over, For the most part it seems like a normal business card, the name _Carlos Ramirez_ printed in calligraphy font on the front. There’s a number but when Gonzalez calls, it leads straight to the Culebra’s Rights hotlines, he doesn’t hesitate to go confer with his partner.

They come back fifteen minutes later after she’s bitten her nails to the quick and tried Richie’s cellphone five more times, getting voicemail after each dial. “We checked into the name this Carlos gave, it’s one of the many alibis the telemarketers use for the Culebra’s Rights accounts. He was definitely lying, and obviously had interest in Scott from what you’ve said. It’s worth looking into, but I still think Gecko is our man, miss Fuller.”

She’s quick to defense. “Yeah, why’s that?”

“With all due respect, miss,” McGraw says, “We didn’t just take Ms. Johnson’s case because it caught our interest-- there’s been others murdered like her. You aware your friend Richie skipped town this morning?”

She goes frozen. “What?”

“We checked the house he’s registered in on ol’ Mill Road to question him ‘bout your friend Libby’s murder this morning, it’s empty. Half the wardrobe’s missing though, and we found some drawers with false bottoms that were cleared. There was a safe too, probably took himself backup cash, maybe blood. Can only assume he was headed somewhere, _fast_.”

Something in her curls and flails, it hurts to hear that he’s actually _gone_ when she needs him. She wonders abstractly if he knew more than he was letting on about Libby, she’s sure he did, but he couldn’t say it and she doesn’t know why. She just _knows_ Richie wasn’t responsible, but did he know all along this would happen and he was just here to warn her?

She feels idiotic for having been conned by an old cowboy, but can’t help laughing at the thought.

The Rangers look at her like she’s flipped her lid. “He didn’t take my brother,” she insists.

“Maybe not,” says Gonzalez. “But after you mentioned him yesterday we looked him up, he was off radar till right around the time the murders started happening a few months ago. Seems odd to resurface that way, doesn’t it?”

“You know what, I don’t care either way. Carlos was the one interested in my brother last night at the rally, he was trying to get him and Clarence to go off with him. Ask Scott’s idiot friend who drove them up there.”

“Can we get the boy’s number?”

She writes it down and McGraw goes outside to check on Clarence and ask what happened, inspecting the property lines for clues. Gonzalez continues to question Kate about the night before, about Carlos and what he looked like, exactly what he said and did. He asks about Richie, too, if he did anything bad to her.

“Culebras have special talents,” he says. “Some can influence people’s minds or mess with their feelings. He didn’t do that you, did he?”

Her gaze meets his and she holds it steady. “No. We talked and he helped me figure out where Scott was, I left.”

Gonzalez nods, there’s more questions to be asked before McGraw confirms Clarence is alright, but that Carlos had approached Scott first the night before when coming up to the two boys. “I can’t help but see some kind of connection, miss,” he says. “First your friend, now your brother, I think you may be a target. Not to mention this Gecko fella getting involved right in the thick of it. We’re gonna call the locals and send a car over for patrol for your protection. You have a request on the man?”

“Kyle,” she says, she knows he usually works the night shift but she wants to intercept him first thing, keep him occupied before anyone else can ask him what _he_ was doing last night. “We knew each other in high school.”

McGraw gives her a shit eating grin because he thinks she’s got a crush and finds it funny even under the circumstance, she realizes he’s an old bastard and hopes he might actually mean it when he says they’ll find out who Carlos is and track any lead they can on Scott, because it’s clear he’s into the case, they wouldn’t have come this far if they weren’t invested.

But humans can only do so much against monsters, can’t they?

They give her their number and wait for Kyle to arrive, he greets the rangers sleepily but on guard, they salute him before getting into their truck and disappearing down the lane. Kyle waves at her from where she’s watching him in the window, she waves back guiltily.

“I’m tired,” her father says from the same spot he’s been since the rangers questione him, he looks helpless and ground down.

“Then go to bed.”

She doesn’t watch him leave, instead she goes to Scott’s room, tears down the yellow tape over the door and sits next to the marker on the bloody bed, evidence be damned, she’s already contaminated it once. Closing her eyes she tries to find any other memory that’s left, but there’s nothing else, just the fear, the desperation. She runs her hands down her face, there’s nothing left for her to find here and her fingers smell like blood. The only possible person to be able to give her anymore answers has supposedly booked town, and she’s got no resources at her disposal.

 _Except being a freak._ It’s Scott’s voice in her head, not her own. She remembers the day she told him she could see things, right before their mama died, before she had to be the adult and he started resenting her.

He’d thought she was pulling his leg, but after insisting he’d almost been afraid. “I knew you read the Bible too much. Now you think you’re hearing God.”

“The opposite,” she told him.

He looked weary. “So what, the Devil?”

She shook her head, hiding behind her hair in shame. “Something like that.”

“You know,” Scott said, his tone was so soft she felt the encouragement to look at him shyly from under her bangs. “If I didn’t think you were shitting me, it might almost be kind of cool. I mean, it’s funny too, I thought I was supposed to be the freak, and now here you are with some professed psychic visions. I wondered why everyone was looking at you weird lately..”

“I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Maybe it’s best if you do nothin’,” he said, almost sympathetic, knowing it was useless to fight your demons, he’d already tried, hadn’t he? And she’d done nothing to help.

And so life went on and the distance separated them after mama died, Scott pretty much forgot she’d ever told him about her visions, made fun of her if she mentioned anything about it. She was supposed to be his sister and instead she became the judge and jury for his juvenile life when she really had no right, it should have been their father. She doesn’t blame Scott for hating her, he was just a kid, too.

Yet he was right that she has some kind of autonomy in this-- the rangers said Richie’s house was empty and they hadn’t found any other clues, but the rangers can’t _see_ like she can.

She scrambles into the kitchen where the coffee pot’s already filled from the automatic timer, kept hot by the plate during the hour of questioning. She makes a mug with two sugars and heads out to Kyle’s cruiser. He bugs when he sees her move out of the house, meets her halfway and asks if she’s okay but doesn’t say a word about what’s happened during the night, just says he’s sorry about what happened to Scott. She knows he doesn’t remember a goddamn thing about her and Richie.

“Thank you,” she says, handing him the coffee.  “I figured you could use this, being up so early and all. I just felt safer with you here.”

“You’re kind, Kate” he says, giving her his best smile before taking a sip and _mm_ ning. “Two sugars, you remembered.”

She gives a grin back, playing innocent.  “The rangers told me there’s nothing I can do but wait, I’m really tired though, and want to take a nap.”

“Of course,” he says, the nice baptist boy he’s always been. “Is there any way I can help with anythin’? We can’t clean the crime scene yet, but I could do your laundry if you wanna change or anything else you need done?”

“It’s okay, really,” she says. “I’m just tired. I’ll come get you if I need anything when I wake up.”

He seems hesitant, but has also never been one of push her boundaries. “Sure, no problem. I’ll be right here, okay?”

“Alright.”

She goes back inside and checks to make sure he’s back in his cruiser, looking at his phone.

Runs upstairs and washes herself clean, all of her brother’s blood ruddy down the drain, some of her own from between her legs, too. It makes her insides heave when she thinks about Richie’s comment to Kyle the night before, but another part of her simmers. She doesn’t have real time to think about that or her cramps or the pulse between her thighs though. She has a mission and doesn’t let herself even dry off before she’s got a tampon, underwear, shorts, a tanktop.

Thinks over her options as she shakes her wet hair loose, doesn’t bother to brush. There’s a need for protection in a place she’s not familiar with, and her family has never had much in that way, but they are Texans and have their foid cards by natural right, obviously. She digs around under her bed for a moment, feeling for the shoebox she her father’s old revolver in; hid it away when he got depressed. She stashes it in the waistband of her shorts after shoving on some socks and Keds; the metal is cold against her hip.

Decides she needs a more symbolic weapon, too, something to ward instead of kill in case she needs a measure of inquiry. Creeps down the stairs to her dad’s dusty study, grabs the old bottle of holy water he’s had aging in his desk, staring at the pictures of her and Scott and their mom on the mantle across the room, memories of when they were a family and it’s shitty to look at, she doesn’t want to hurt like this, she doesn’t understand how her life has become this. It used to be so normal, daisy fresh, and then it all went wrong. She should’ve listened after her mama died, after she started seeing things. She should’ve known this was coming.

It’s all her fault.

She sneaks out through the back door, the garage hidden enough by the side of the house that she can get in through the side and take her old bike with it’s almost rusted chain thatshe’s had since she was fifteen and stopped growing; wheels it through the backyard and the neighbors’ until she’s at the end of the street, mounts and heads down South Meadow Road, taking the turn at the end that will lead her on a straight shot through Bethel’s original alley system to Old Mill Road.

It’s sweltering but she knows the route well from when she and her mama would take bike rides around town for fun. It’s on the southern side, holding some of the oldest houses in Bethel. Most of them are mansion sized, rotting in on themselves after no one could afford the upkeep. It takes her a twenty minute ride to get there, she hopes Kyle won’t check the house to make sure she’s okay.

She doesn’t know which house Richie’s supposed to be staying in exactly, but it’s not very hard to figure out considering there are only a few houses left on the street that aren’t condemned, and she knows who lives in most of them, there’s just one that had been on the market for years at the end of the street.

Sure enough, the _For Sale_ sign she’d seen in front of the large plantation style home a little less than a year ago is gone, the overgrown foliage in the yard has been cut down, the shutters are painted, and there’s tire marks in the dirt drive.

She parks her bike on the side of the house and creeps up to the front porch. There’s enough space between used houses that she can comfortably stand at the front door and try the handle, isn’t surprised that the rangers left it unlocked after themselves.

The massive double doors creaks open easily, inside her eyes fight to adjust to the darkness, all the curtains drawn so Richie doesn’t burn in the sun, she supposes.

The front room is all marble and charm, sconces on the wall that are covered in dust. On the left is a set of closed doors, to the right an open entryway. She chooses the second option, creeping quietly, alert in case he never actually left, just stayed in hiding.

Through the open arch is a living area, dark velvet curtains over the windows, lavish furniture. She feels nothing from it, a sense of detachment as she moves towards the south wall where another entryway awaits, shrouded in more shadows. As she moves into the room there’s a sudden _thump_ from the other side of the house and she stills in fear, drawing the revolver out of her waistband with a shaky hand.

She’s still sweating from the heat of outside and fear, the skin exposed from her shorts and tank slick, her breath rattles in her chest as sneaks through the house, heart in her throat, she wonders if Richie didn’t take off after all, or if there’s someone else staying here. Maybe it’s the rangers come to look again, or it’s Carlos come looking for her.

Follows the arch into an ornate dining room, as grand as the rest of the house, all red velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers, a table large enough to feed a harem. She stays close to the shadows and pushes open a heavy swinging door on the back wall, leading her into what looks like the kitchen, a sudden influx of light that blinds her. She keeps the revolver held out as she tries to sweep her eyes around the room, but before her retinas can adjust she hears the _click_ of a glock switching out of safety at the side of her head.

Her insides go cold and for a split moment she’s afraid she might piss herself, but then she starts to settle as the adrenaline begins to flow.

“You even know how to use that piece, princess?” asks a deep voice, it sounds like honey on gravel, she’s surprised not to hear something more menacing.

“It’s Texas, everyone knows how to shoot a gun.”

The voice laughs, it’s chest deep, not old, not young, something else entirely. Her eyes focus on the wall as the man tells her to put down her weapon slowly. She does, lowering with her knees toward the ground and laying the gun at her feet; there’s a barrel at her temple the whole time.

When she stands again he tells her, “Be cool, sis, and we won’t have any problems.”

She clenches her teeth and he instructs her to face him, she swivels with her hands held low and comes eye to eye with a man about a head taller than her, he can’t be much older than his early thirties physically, honey skin and dark, coarse hair, there’s a black flamed tattoo licking up his arm and neck-- she recognizes the sharpness of his jaw and depth of his eyes, the little spark there; his mouth and essence are the same as Richie’s, too.

“So you’re Seth, huh?” she asks.

His eyes go wide. “And who are you, exactly?” His gun is trained right between her eyes and his hands don’t shake, but she knows he isn’t going to shoot her. “I mean, besides a little girl in a snake’s den.”

She smiles at him, he told her to be cool, after all. And then she grabs the holy water from her belt and tosses it in his face before running.

Richie never explained who or what his brother is, after all, and she’s not looking to be a culabra meal before she finds her brother.

She makes it back into the dining room with Seth hot on her heels, cursing after her. He fires a warning shot from his gun but she’s already back in the living room, the entryway, she’d been on track in high school as well as swim, keeps in good enough shape she can run for her life, she wavers.

Unfortunately it’s like Seth is two steps ahead, catches up to her before she can get the front door open-- she feels his front at her back, the full mass of him, the heat. He’s so much bigger than her, she realizes, more bulk than the litheness of his brother, the sheer force of him pressing her into the door and shutting it is enough to knock the air out of her lungs.

His breathing is heavy as he whispers in her ear, “That was a dumb move, sis.” She can feel the ghost of his lips near her pulse when he says it and she’s terrified he’s got teeth, doesn’t think, just does as her head snaps back, hitting him square in the face with her occipital.

“ _Fuck_ !” he shouts, she could hear the _crunch_ of nose on impact, but doesn’t have time to think about it as he stumbles back and off of her-- she takes off into the other hidden side room through the large french doors that cover it-- looks like some kind of study with books and shelves is all she can make out in the darkness before he comes slamming in after her.

“Not cool, princess!”

Another warning shot, it hits the door frame by her head as she finds the next exit on the east wall and darts into another decorative living space secluded in shadows, curtains pulled tight so no sunlight can make it’s way in here either. She wonders why he hasn’t just shot her, remembers the strength of him and how still he could hold her if he catches her. She’s not sure what he’ll do yet, and is wholly unprepared.

 _Dumbass_ , she thinks. _Shouldn’t have played Nancy Drew_.

Scrambles against the walls to find an exit, any kind of escape route when Seth enters, she’s got her fingers on a door frame, he flips on the lights and her eyes adjust to the dusty brightness as he holds his hands up in mock surrender, she can see the blood dripping from his nose and the anger on his brow. “Listen, sis, I’m not gonna hurt--”

She doesn’t let him finish, has found a handle by now and shoves her way through, back into the kitchen from the opposite end, a lab rat in a maze. She thinks she’s trapped before seeing that off to the side of the small eating area by the counters is what looks like a back door, makes her way for it when suddenly he’s right behind her, big arms around her waist and she’s flailing and screaming as he pulls her to the ground. He tries to pin her but she uses his weight against him and rolls to the opposite side of which he’s leaning, trying to push the gun at her but she pulls up with her knees and turns her face towards his bracing arm to _bite_.

“Jesus christ!” he screams, doesn’t have time to act as she elbows him in the joint of bracing arm and pushes the other hand with the gun away, using the momentum to slide out from under him as he loses balance and falls.

Flipping over on her hands and knees she can see her gun less than ten feet away and makes a dive, but not before Seth has righted and sends a single shot directly in front her hand, making her freeze in place. “Up, princess.”

For a moment she thinks of fighting back again, but realizes he has her cornered.

She groans in defeat, scrabbling herself up on the island behind her. He’s already standing again, moves slowly towards her, barrel aimed at her chest-- his face and shirt are soaking wet, there’s no more blood flowing from his nose and it doesn't look broken, but the new wound she just gave him on his non dominant forearm with her teeth is an angry, bloody mark.

“This place is a fucking maze,” she pants, the run around the house has taken all the air out of her, the revolver is a few feet too far for her to reach and she huffs, leaning back to rest-- if he wanted to hurt her she supposes he would have done it by now-- maybe he’s just here looking for answers, too.

Seth is breathing just as hard as her as he says, “That's probably why Richie bought it, he likes puzzles.”

She can’t help but ask, “Why didn’t you just shoot me?”

“I’m not into killing teenagers.”

“I’m twenty-one,” she says.

His smile is wolfish. “I thought you were jailbait for sure, sis. Good to know I ain’t getting charged with groping a minor.” She scoffs and he laughs low, it comes from his chest and makes her feel fuzzy. “What the hell was the water for anyways? Did you not realize we’re in sunlight back here?” He motions around the bright kitchen, light coming in from large bay windows between the modern white cabinets.

Her face heats, and the only explanation she can muster is, “I didn't know if you were going to eat me or not.”

His smirk is downright vile, she feels like he’s eye-fucking her and she knows her scowl entertains him. “Princess, a little holy water wouldn't stop me from getting what I want.”

“Noted,” she says, tries to move but he _tsks_ at her and motions towards one of the stools at the counter, she sits and so does he, keeping the gun between them.

“I'm not a culabra. I'm just as tough, though.”

“What are you then?” She asks, eyeing him skeptically.

“Doesn't matter. What does, is why you're here… didn't catch your name, by the way, even though you seem to know mine pretty well.”

She glares at him but he motions with the revolver for her to answer. “My name is Kate. I’m here because I need to find your brother.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because someone _took_ mine, and I want him back.”

Seth looks confused, he tilts his head and eyes her like she’s trying to con him-- ironic, she thinks. “And just how exactly is Richie gonna help you with that?”

“Not sure, but I think he knows more than he was telling me. How ‘bout you, Seth, know anything about Mayan sacrifices happening in the modern century?”

Like she’s hit a nerve, he goes pale, hesitantly lowers his gun down to his side, but not before he puts a few feet between their chairs. He’s not twitchy, exactly, just on guard, more hesitant than his brother. She still doesn't know what he is, he said he's as strong as Richie, but then again, why would he be using a gun if that’s the case, and why can’t she _see_ it on ‘im?

“So that’s why he’s here,” Seth sighs, he looks angry about something.

“So he did know about it.”

“Listen, kid, there’s some weird shit going around that I think you’d best stay out of.”

“I’m already in it. I think Carlos took my brother because I found Libby.”

Seth pauses in his anger and turns to look at her very seriously. “Wait, wait, _Carlos_? Big spanish cowboy culebra bastard?”

She bristles, on defense. “Yeah. Sound familiar?”

“I knew Santanico was involved with this.” He says it like a curse, looking suddenly lost in his own head.

She’s on edge, the fact he knows her brother’s captor doesn’t spell good for her being at his mercy, but at this point it’s all she has to go on. “Who’s Santanico?”

“Who’s Libby?” he counters.

Her mouth twitches from clenching her teeth so hard, doesn’t want to tell him anything because she doesn’t trust him. “A coworker of mine who got sacrificed two days ago. I found her body and she told me they were after me.”

“She _told_ you?” he asks, skeptic.

“Hey, you and your brother are a hundred and sixty, he drinks blood to live and can eyeball hand people. Me talking to the dead sounds weird to you?”

Seth shakes his head, stands and begins to pace as he studies her face acutely-- it makes her just as uncomfortable as when his brother does it. “How do you know about his waywob?”

“Waywob? You mean his mind control eyeball? He showed me.”

Seth snorts and shakes his head. “He always did like 'em young.”

“It isn't like that!” she’s quick to defend, her cheeks heating as she thinks about how close she’d been to Richie in the car last nice.

“Sure,” he smirks. “Can you talk to all dead people?”

“No, only the ones who want to talk to me, I think. I’m not sure. Mainly I just dream about people being ripped apart for the Gods.” She doesn’t know where the word _Gods_ come from, has never used the plural form as a proper noun in her life. It feels sacrilegious somehow, a baptist preacher’s daughter hearing messages from pagan deities, but somehow she knows that their words are true just as much as her God’s are, she knows that’s who’s been speaking to her in that moment like a revelation.

For a while Seth says nothing, simply studying her with a newfound perspective before sitting down across from her again. “Okay, so maybe he’s not just a sucker for your shiny hair-” she touches her locks self-consciously- “Seems like you two are kindred.”

“Excuse me?”

“Before he got turned, my brother started seeing things like that, too. But only cause some trapped culebra bitch wanted us to free her.”

“What do you mean?”she asks, confused by what he’s going on about.

“It’s a long story,” he says. “One I don’t have time for. I need to find my brother.” He tries to get up from the counter but she reaches out quick, grabs his arm and his gun trains on her in instinct before he looks at her hand there on his skin, she’s so fair compared to him, unblemished skin atop dark flames. He feels hot to the touch, the same electricity to his pulse as his brother.

Her eyes meet his and he stays in place. “Do you think Carlos got to Richie too? The rangers are looking for him, they think he’s the one murdering people.”

“He’s not.” Seth looks adamant. “ _She_ ’s not in his head anymore. But I think he probably figured out Carlos was involved and went to her.”

“Who? You mentioned the name Santanico, is it her?”  she lets go of him then, satisfied he’ll stay, he looks back down to where her hand is now missing from his arm, eyes unreadable.

He nods. “Santanico Pandemonium, my brother’s maker. Her and Carlos were associates a long time ago, before she made Richie.”

“Do you think Richie knew about my brother?” she asks, afraid to hear the answer, to hear of betrayal, it just can’t be him.

“When was your brother taken?”

“Sometime before this morning,” Kate says.

Seth sighs, looks out the window into the backyard; the house sits in front of Cutter’s creek, the stream steady and strong from a much needed rain last week; the grass that leads down to it is still dead. “Then probably, because that’s when Richie left.”

“How do you know?”

“His safe isn’t cracked but it was accessed a couple hours ago-- he tooks some money and some clothes, and a lot of ammo…” He trails off, looking back to her again, one long glance down her frame and she shifts uncomfortably under his lecherous scrutiny. “How long have you out known him anyways? Did he say anything to you about this shit or just try and pop your cherry?”

Her glare is ice, Seth holds a hand mockingly to his heart like she’s wounded him. “It isn't like that, like I said. We only talked a few times. He evaded me when I asked, but I knew he was lying, but it was almost like he had to, for some reason.”

He shakes his head. “Richie doesn’t just talk to people for no reason. He probably picked up on you-- he can do that, figure out when people have a calling like he did. I never got in on it, but that’s probably why he found you. It’s probably why Carlos did, too. Can your brother see things?”

“No,” she says. “But he’s adopted, is that relevant?”

“I don’t know,” Seth shrugs. “Usually that shit goes through the blood, so I don’t know why he’d want him. Something else I’ll ask Richie when I see him.”

“Wait, you’re just gonna go?”

He again stands smoothly, intent to his step again. “Don’t need to waste anymore time if you want me to find your brother, right?”

It’s almost like he means it as a joke. “I’m going with you.”

He laughs, turns to leave, making it a few confident feet towards the door. “Sure you are, princess. Right after I get a parent consent form.”

Quickly, she ducks and scoops up the gun he made her ditch on the ground earlier from a few feet away, cocking it behind him. Seth stops in place, calm, but she can feel the irritation in his posture. “Don’t get into a fight you can’t win, sis,” he warns.

“I’m going with you,” she says, she isn’t afraid. “My brother’s in danger, too.”

“Do you have any idea what you’d be getting into?” he turns, slowly, she keeps the gun aimed on him.

“I can handle myself.”

He lunges at her in the next second, she’s too slow to stop him and his body collides with hers on hard impact, taking all the air from her lungs once again. She cries out as he shoves her into the island and grabs her wrist, slamming her hand against the edge until the gun falls, she can feel the screaming ache go up her arm but refuses to cry out in pain.

“Get off!’” she screams instead, but he holds her in place.

When their eyes meet she _sees_ it then-- the end and rebirth of time she saw in his brother’s gaze that first night, something older and wiser than the both of them. He hadn’t taken the bite like his brother, but, like her, Seth is family orientated, he didn’t want to leave his brother alone forever.

So he did…. _something_. He’s holding on too tight to the memory for he to see, but she knows he sold his soul to be with his brother for eternity.

She feels the pain of it, his loneliness, the hate of the words he and Richie said the last time they saw each other.  It’s like she’s drinking his blood how Richie had drank hers, it feels intoxicating, mad to see inside his head. A hundred lives, the blood of others, love from unfamiliar women, pain from every orifice.

He knows that she can see this, and still he does not let go of her, tightens his grip and his words are sincere when he says, “I don’t want your blood on my hands, Kate. You don’t know how to handle these kind of monsters like I do.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Then teach me.”

For a moment his expression is blank, but then, slowly, he begins to grin like a cheshire, takes a soft step back from her and holds out his hand for her to shake-- she raises a brow but meets it with her own anyways. “I can see why my brother liked you,” Seth says as she pulls away.

“Oh yeah?” she parries.

He nods. “You might look like a church mouse, but every preacher’s daughter has their rebellious phase.”

Mouth agape, she asks, “How did you know I’m a preacher’s daughter?”

“Lucky guess,” he says with a shiteating grin, then motions for her to follow him as he starts walking back towards the last room they had come out of. She reasons it could be very, very stupid of her to trust the other Gecko, but just like with her brother, something in her gut tells her to follow him.

They’re all on the same path for a reason, she’s just not sure why yet.

But her mama didn’t raise no cowards, so she’s determined to find out. Scoops up her revolver quick and tucks it away again, follows him back through what she realizes is a den and back into an office he illuminates with the light switch.

The room is massive, more of a library with a desk in the middle. All of the walls are made of built-in shelves and lined with thousands and thousands of books, some she spies that she’s read before, others with titles in languages she can’t even begin to guess the origin of.

“My brother’s had a lot of time to amass his collection,” Seth says when he sees her gaping in awe. He takes out a handkerchief and begins wiping the blood off his face, it looks like she did barely any damage when she hit him, which confuses her because she remembers the nasty _crunch_ his nose had made. “You look like Belle when the beast showed her all of his books. That why you like my brother, he your bad boy monster phase, preacher’s daughter?”

She  crinkles her nose at him, runs her hand over worn spines as Seth takes a picture down off the fireplace mantle behind the desk. Behind it is a massive, high-tech safe complete with key code and old-fashioned combination lock. “Fourty-six-oh-two,” Seth says as he keys in the code and switches the combination out of lock; the combo sounds oddly familiar in the back of her mind. “Been the same one for over hundred years”

“Jesus, how old are you two again?” Kate asks, watching as he begins to grab stacks of cash and throw them into a bag he fishes out from a side drawer like it’s nothing.

“Old enough,” he says. “You gonna stand there or help me carry some of this shit?”

Rolling her eyes, she goes over and holds out her arms expectantly, eyes going wide as a crossbow is put in them. “I’ve never used this,” she says, shocked.

“Pretty simple,” Seth says, lining himself up behind her, arms around her as he shows her how to hold it-- her bite on him is still bleeding. Her cheeks heat in embarrassment from it and the way she's acutely aware of how close he is once again, the earthy scent of his sweat, the salt of his blood where it’s beginning to clot around the bite she gave him on his arm-- it’s pretty deep, she wonders if an immortal can still scar. “Just line it up,” he says, curls his fingers around hers on the trigger and aims her towards an armchair. “And shoot.” Clicks the trigger and the wooden stake loaded into the barrel flies into the headrest of the seat, sending up a cascade of feathers and fluff as the fabric splits on impact.

He steps back and smiles at her, grabs a few more things out of the safe-- among them is a shotgun, two more handguns, a stick of dynamite, five wooden stakes, and ten boxes of ammo.

“I thought the rangers said he cleared the place, didn't really mention the safe though,” she whistles.

Seth scoffs. “Doubtful they even cracked it. Richie had this made by one of the best thieves in the business so no one else could crack it.”

“Oh yeah, and who’s that?”

“Me,” he says nonchalantly, swinging the stuffed duffel of cash and weapons over his shoulder.

Shocked, she follows after him silently as he makes his way into the foyer, takes a jacket off one of the hooks by the door she hadn’t even noticed before and digs a pair of car keys out of it.

“Richie mentioned you were outlaws, or something,” is what she finally manages to say as he opens the front door and waits for her to exit in front of him.

“Or ‘something’ is probably a better explanation.”

She follows him around the side of the house and down the drive to the garage; they go in through the side door and he clicks the main door’s remote; it rises with a groan and floods the dusty space with light. It’s a rather large area, three stalls with a workshop, but it’d be hard to miss the jet blacks sports car sitting in the middle of the floor.

Blinking, she follows as he opens the passenger door for her, pretending to be a gentleman. “M’lady,” he says, winks as she sits.

In response she rolls her eyes, asks, “What if I need stuff?” as he gets in.

“Like what?” He chucks the duffel in the back seat before occupying the driver’s, shutting the door softly, because it’s obvious he likes nice cars as much as his brother.

“Uh, clothes.”

“I’ll just buy you more.”

“Oh.” And it’s only then it really hits her what she’s gotten into. Her brother’s missing and she doesn’t even bother to tell her boss or her friends. She imagines they’ll all panic when she doesn’t come to work tonight, call the rangers. She doesn’t even want to think about that though, because even if she’s just put her hands in the life of an ancient conman, it’s the best bet she’s got of finding Richie, and then finding Scott.

“Now, come on, princess,” Seth says, turning the key in the ignition. The car hums to life and he switches into gear with a grin. “If we wanna find our brothers before the next apocalypse, we better get rambling.”

 

 

 

 


	4. Podría Comerte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I know I'm shit at updating, but here's something at least. Might seem like a bit of a filler chap to some but I love me some Seth/Kate bonding time.

 

 

 

“Where are we going?” Kate asks, watching as the  _ Welcome to Bethel, Texas! _ sign begins to recede in the rearview mirror. 

 

She’s been too lost in thought to ask until now, wondering if she’s made the right choice in tagging along with the other Gecko. She really knows nothing about either of the brothers, and they’re obviously both dangerous, aren’t even  _ human _ . She could be a meal ticket at this point without the slightest clue.

 

The compass on the car dashboard says they’re headed southwest, but that could mean a number of destinations at this point.

 

Still, it comes as a shock when Seth says, “Mexico.”

 

She blinks, having never been out of the states in her life even though the border is half a day’s drive away. It’s a little past noon, pegging them to arrive before dusk. 

 

“Where in Mexico?”

 

He hesitates for a moment, there’s something dark to his expression when he says, “A place most people want to forget.”

 

Though the answer is too vague for her liking, she tries to hold her tongue from snapping at him, still not sure if his intentions towards her are benign, and though she’d like to believe he brought her with him because he’d felt some sort of kinship towards her being on the search for her brother too, she’s also pretty sure there’s more selfish intent behind it, a wolf in grandma’s clothing. 

 

The car is filled with silence as he turns onto the highway off the main road, she tries to hold off thoughts that threaten to drown her, like where they’re going, if Richie’s really there. Where her brother is, if he’s hurt, alive, dead. 

 

Or undead.

 

“Sooo… Kate, is that short for somethin’?” Seth asks then, breaking her from her thoughts. His fingers are tapping on the steering wheel and he’s been messing with the radio constantly since they left.

 

It reminds her of Scott. He’s always drumming out beats on surfaces, fidgeting with anything in reach, has never liked complete silence like the stillness will swallow him whole. She reasons Seth’s probably the same way, constantly energized and on alert, has to keep his busy mind focused.

 

She entertains him like her brother. “Katherine, it was my grandma’s name.”

 

“What’s your last name?”

 

“Fuller.”

 

He chuckles. “I knew you were Irish, could tell from the freckles.”

 

She blushes, glances out the window as he passes cars with ease, going a steady fifteen above the speed limit; she’s grateful for his haste.

 

“So, Katherine Fuller, how much shit would we be in if the feds think you’ve been taken, too?” He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, measuring her response.

 

She thinks about it for a moment, about how fast gossip travels in a small town. “Probably a lot. As you know, my dad used to be the preacher, so ev’ryone knows my family.”

 

He exhales harsh, glances back out the windshield. It looks like he’s rethinking his decision of bringing her along with him, neither of them had thought about the risks enough. She grabs onto the handle above the door with one hand and presses her seatbelt tight into the lock with the other, thinking he’s probably not above kicking her out of the car right then and there. 

 

“Got anyone you can call to stall the manhunt?” is what he finally asks.

 

She thinks about calling her father but he’s probably already asleep again, or drunk, dead to the world like he’s buried next to Momma already, and she doesn’t want to deal with that. The only other person that comes to mind is Rafa, and she wagers with what she told the rangers earlier about going to the rally to find Scott that she’s going to have to come clean with him sooner or later. It makes her guts twist just thinking about it, driving a knife in but she put it there herself, doesn’t have time for guilt, she has to find her brother.

 

“Can I use your cell phone?” she asks.

 

“You don’t have one?”

 

Her cheeks turn a now familiar crimson. “I kind of...threw it against the wall when I tried to call your brother this mornin’ and he didn’t pick up. I’d just found Scott’s bloody bed and I was, uh, freaking out.” She cringes when he begins to laugh like she figured he would. 

 

“Damn, remind me not to make you angry,” he chuckles as he sits up in his seat, cruises with one hand and digs out his cell with the other, unlocks the screen and passes it to her. “Who you callin’ to hold off the heavy fire?”

 

“My boss,” she answers, he raises a skeptical brow but she’s already dialing Rafa’s cell and hitting  _ send _ .

 

It takes a few rings before he answers since it’s an unknown number. “I ain’t looking for any cruise deals or credit cards, so fuck off if you’re a telemarketer,” comes his familiar voice from the other line.

 

Seth chuckles, she can tell he can hear Rafa through the speaker; she tries to turn down the volume as she says, “It’s me, Rafa.”

 

“Kate? Who’s phone are you calling from? Is everything okay?” There’s concern in his tone, of course, she squeezes her eyes tight and sighs.

 

“So no one’s told you yet?”

 

“Told me what?”

 

“Someone took Scott, Rafa. I need your help.” She says it in less than a whisper, it hurts to breathe her brother’s name.

 

For a moment the other end is silent before he says, “What happened, Katerina?”

 

He’s the first comforting voice she’s heard since finding her brother’s bloody bed this morning, and she can’t help the hot rush of tears that escapes her eyes, stifles a sob half-heartedly. Seth glances at her out of the corner of his eye but she steadily ignores him, he does not get to be a part of her trauma, not right now. “Oh Rafa,” she says. “I’m so scared.”

 

She tells him _ everything _ , even the parts she left out with the rangers. Tells him about Richie, about lying to him to go find Scott, about  _ Carlos _ and what Richie did to Kyle, about finding Scott’s empty room and the fear and pain she felt there. For his part, Seth doesn’t stop her from telling the secrets she’s kept with his brother; maybe he’s just too freaked out to talk to her because she’s full on bawling by the end of her rushed story, maybe he just doesn’t give a damn either way.

 

“I’m so sorry I lied to you,” she says. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

 

“I know, Katerina, I know,” Rafa sighs, he sounds so sad, like he can feel her pain miles away. She knows he’s upset she lied, but he’s too good a person to be mad in a time of crisis. “I just wish you had told me, I could’ve helped. I could’ve stayed the night and maybe…” 

 

He trails off, she knows what he was going to say, that maybe he could’ve stopped Scott from being taken. She’s always been a deep sleeper but Rafa was in the army when he was younger and bolts up at any sound in the night. Maybe he could’ve stopped Carlos, she wagers, but more than likely he would’ve just gotten hurt, too.

 

“I don’t want you involved with this,” is all she can bring herself to say. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

“Are  _ you _ hurt?” he asks, there’s so much worry in his tone she imagines he’s making himself dizzy with it. 

 

“No,” she says. “No, I’m okay. But I’m not home, I’m not even in Bethel. I have to find Scott. I need you to tell Frost and the rangers that I’m okay, but don’t come looking for me.”

 

“Where  _ are _ you?”

 

“In a car.”

 

“With  _ who _ ?”

 

She reasons on telling him the truth but it’d be another long story to explain and she doesn’t have time. “A friend.”

 

“Is it that culebra bastard?” His tone is colored green with envy, slight hints of anger and worry present as well; she sees Seth’s lips quirk out of the corner of her eye and realizes he’s still been able to hear Rafa the entire time; her free fist clenches, he could be a bit more polite about eavesdropping.

 

“No,” it technically isn’t a lie.

 

The other line is quiet again before he finally asks, “Are you sure this is the only way?”

 

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had other options, but I’m dealing with  _ monsters _ Rafa. I have to save Scott, and I don’t want anyone else getting caught in the crossfire.”

 

His voice breaks suddenly when he speaks to her again, like he’s about to cry, too, and it makes her eyes pool with fresh tears. “Please come home to me safe, Katerina.”

 

The way he says  _ to me  _ makes her have to swallow her guilt. “I’ll try my best,” is all she can say, knows she has to end the call before she breaks down again. Seth only gets to see her weak once, that it had to be so early in their time together is embarrassing enough. “I’ll see you later.”

 

“You’d better.”

 

She ends the call and hands the phone back to Seth.

 

“Boss, huh?” is all he says, waggling his brows suggestively at her.

 

She wipes her face, sniffles and puts on her best sneer, a little pissed at the fact that he keeps trying to put her in bed with every man she mentions.

 

“What’s your problem? You so old you still think women are second class citizens or somethin’?” she snaps.

 

“Far from. Women are powerful-- thought a pretty lil’ thing like you would’ve realized that about herself already.”

 

She scoffs and is about to turn away when she notices him unroll his window which he’s pointedly kept  _ up _ since the air’s been on in the car. Confused, she watches as he lifts his phone up and just chucks it into traffic behind him like he’s flicking out a cigarette butt.

 

Stunned, she simply asks, “What was that for?”

 

“‘Cause the feds could be tracking all ingoing and outgoing calls in your life.”

 

“Oh,” is all she can answer, because she hadn’t thought of that.

 

“If you’re going to hang out with a criminal, start thinking like one,” he tells her.

 

They make small talk for the next hundred miles, the blur of the highway and static as he switches the radio station every few songs. But after another hour or so her natural urges hit her, and she realizes she’s  _ got _ to piss. Bad. Nevermind that her tampon needs changed and the pressure is making it so much worse.

 

Locking her legs, she asks him, rather panicked, “Can you find a rest stop, please. I have to go to the bathroom.”

 

“Sure you can’t hold it? The less time the better, we gotta make it to our destination before dusk.”

 

“What happens at dusk?”

 

His expression is vacant. “Bad things.”

 

“Okay, mister vague, whatever you say, but I really  _ can’t _ hold it much longer.” It feels like her urethra is gonna explode and she’s afraid she’s going to piss on the seats, wonders if he’d be mad or just shrug it off and buy himself a new car, his flippancy with money as apparent as Richie’s was.

 

He sighs in irritation, pulls into the next gas station about ten miles up the road.

 

“May as well fill-up while we’re here,” he says as he parks at a gas pump, taking out his wallet as they both climb out. “You go take care of business while I do this. Be quick.”

 

She stands there awkwardly with her hands around her middle, bouncing on her toes and he raises a brow at her impatiently. She shuffles, staring at the ground like a little girl. “You know how I asked what I’d do if I needed things?”

 

He nods.

 

“I need things, and I didn’t think about bringing money.”

 

“What is it?”

 

She hesitates, thinks about lying but she’s got to piss way too bad to waste anymore time. “Tampons,” she squeaks out.

 

For his part, there’s no surprise or disgust to his expression like most southern men at the mention of a woman’s menses, no joke like his brother. If anything he looks more sympathetic, pulls a fifty dollar bill out of his billfold and hands it to her. “Get the big pack, some midol and some water bottles, too. You’re gonna need to stay hydrated, but it’s true what they say about water south of the border. Whatever else you need, too. Still hurry though.”

 

She thanks him and sprints into the gas station, quickly finding the tampons and slapping them on the counter with the fifty, the middle aged clerk keeps a blank face as she gives back change and Kate rushes with her purchase to the bathroom to relieve herself.

 

Goes back out after washing her hands and the sweat off her face, is a bit less rushed as she grabs the Midol like he said and three bottles of water, notices a guy about her age down the cooler lane checking her out unabashedly, can tell even through the lenses of his sunglasses that he’s got on inside for some reason; she’s wearing her work shorts and a tank top, lots of skin showing, hair down and ruffled from not brushing it after she showered, left her revolver in the car. Feels completely unprotected from creeping eyes.

 

She hurries back up to the counter to pay; as she digs out the cash from her shorts again she notices that sunglasses has moved towards the exit door and is lingering. She feels something in her stomach sink, knows a perv when she sees one and hopes he doesn’t give her any trouble as she collects her change and goes to leave.

 

“Hey, babe, how are you?” sunglasses asks as she exits through the opposite door than the one he’s standing at, she steadily ignores him but he follows.

 

There’s a good nine yards between the station and the pumps, Seth’s already back in the car waiting for her and she picks up her pace as sunglasses tries to get her attention again, thinks he won’t follow her when suddenly there’s a hand around the top of her right arm as she makes it past the parking lines, she’s still sore there from her grapple with Seth earlier, still terrified of everything that’s happened this week and can’t help but cry out in shock and pain.

 

She turns to tell him off, pull her arm away, but before she can someone’s shouting and cursing very,  _ very _ loudly. She realizes it’s Seth a second after he starts-- all but explodes out of the car and rushes over to them, shoving sunglasses off of Kate violently so he falls on his ass against the pavement. She blinks in shock, moving without protest as Seth puts his body between her and sunglasses’, becoming a literal human shield.

 

“Hey, what’s your problem old man? I didn’t mean any harm,” sunglasses says angrily, trying to pick himself up off ground.

 

Seth simply shoves him back down, pointing a finger in his face accusingly. “Listen, you little limp-dick punk, you don’t touch a girl without her permission, especially not one who’s  _ mine _ , got it?” His voice sounds different, older somehow, more cryptic. There’s a real threat to his tone, a sort of growl that emanates low from his chest. She realizes he can be just as intimidating as his brother if he wants to be.

 

Sunglasses stays down this time, looking up in true fear. “I’m sorry,  _ sir _ . I didn’t realize she was spoken for.”

 

Seth rolls his eyes, doesn’t say another word as he ushers her back to the car, opens her door for her and makes sure she’s in safe before shutting it. He gets into the other side grumbling to himself about ‘damn millennials’ and peels out of the lot smoothly-- sunglasses hasn’t even gotten off of the ground yet.

 

They’re silent as he turns back onto the highway before she says, “Thank you,” and, “but what the fuck did you mean about a girl that’s  _ yours _ ?” If he feels he has any claim on her, she’s a bit creeped out. They just met, and his intensity of personality is just as uncomfortable as his brother’s. Not to mention the way he’d growled at sunglasses back there was not natural, and she’s still got goosebumps from it. 

 

He glances over at her then back to the road. “Not what you think.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“That I’m a freak like my brother.”

 

She intones her head because he’s spot on, and he laughs belly deep.

 

“Unlike Richie, I’m not into virgins, princess. I like women with  _ experience _ .”

 

Her cheeks heat. “Who said I was a virgin?” 

 

He simply looks at her and she can’t argue with him, avoids his gaze instead. “No shit? I was just messing with you! I thought for sure you’d rebelled a little more than hanging around culebras.”

 

Her cheeks become hotter and the flush spreads down her neck. “Shut up. It’s none of your business.”

 

“Maybe not, but it’s just another reason why my brother got involved with you. Usually he hates humans, finds them boring and routine. But I guess he got a sniff of that good ol’ untouched blood of yours and wanted to delve a little deeper.” The innuendo behind his words has her snorting in disgust, trying to hide behind her hair so he can’t see the red blooming across her chest.

 

“Why’d you get so serious with that guy, then?” she says, trying to change the topic back.

 

He shrugs, passes a semi and picks up speed even more. “Way I see it, you’re in my care now. I’ve done a lot of fucked up shit in my life, so I’ve been on this... _ cleanse _ if you will. Trying to get myself some good karma points by doing nice things for others, and we’re both on similar paths, so.” He says it as if he’s going on a juice fast, some kind of life-change diet and she’s one of the ingredients for his breakfast.

 

“Huh,” she says, a bit stunned to hear something like that from a man like him more than anything. “So immortals do have a soul.”

 

“Now, I never said that, sis.”

 

* * *

 

 

They approach the border a few hours later, can see the checkpoint up ahead, but not before they run into a line about half a mile long, at a standstill every five minutes until another car rolls slowly through into Mexico. It’s nearly five-thirty, sunset isn’t for another two hours but she can tell he’s impatient.

 

“Ah, fuck,” he groans, banging his hand on the steering wheel; she remembers what he said about reaching their destination after dark. “We’re gonna be here forever.”

 

She looks at the clock and realizes it’s been over six hours since she found Scott missing. Her stomach fills with butterflies and she begins to sweat, always having heard the first twenty-four are the most pivotal in a missing person’s case. Dread begins to creep up her spine like little spiders weaving webs through her vertebra, crawling along her brainstem and digging into her meninges, chomping at her pink matter.

 

“You worried about your brother?” Seth asks, she’s pretty sure he can tell she’s beginning to hyperventilate. 

 

“Aren’t you worried about yours?” she parries, trying to take deep breaths, counting to three over and over.

 

He shrugs. “Richie’s been taking care of himself a long time.”

 

“When did you guys split up?”

 

“Right after he turned.”

 

Her hands are shaking and she’s desperate for a distraction so she doesn’t have another panic attack, doesn’t really care for the sound of his voice even though he feels the complete opposite, but she’ll take it if it means not having to think about all of the spiders eating her alive. “He told me he was dying, what happened?”

 

Seth sighs, he looks like he really doesn’t want to tell her, but they aren’t going anywhere as far as border patrol is concerned, cars moving forwards inch by agonizing inch. He battles with himself for a moment about turning her down, but, thankfully, he takes pity on her.

 

“Santanico once called our story Los Hermanos Geckos,” he starts. “I think it’s kind of gay, but Richie stuck with it since he was fucking the bitch.”

 

She motions for him to go on.

 

“You know how old Richie is, right?” 

 

She nods.

 

“Well I was born the year after---”

 

“He said you were the older brother,” she interrupts, confused.

 

“Physically,” he shrugs. “I didn’t become immortal until about seven years after him. We usually switch it so people don’t realize we’re the brothers from the legend.”

 

“What legend?”

 

“If you’d let me finish.” She shies her head and they pull a whole spot forwards as he starts again. “We used to be robbers in the old west, there was hardly a functioning lawman in the county, but I got shot and caught on a train deal, ended up in the pokey for a few years when we were in our mid-twenties. Get out, Richie’s lost his goddamn mind, I mean, just gone fuckin’ batshit, princess. I didn’t know what to do with ‘im, we couldn’t keep livin’ that life when he was talking to walls and seeing eyeballs in his hand--” he pointedly glances at her and she blinks, remembers the  _ actual _ eyeball Richie had in his hand last night and shivers-- “and I didn’t see a damn thing. We were fucked.

 

“Then one day we’re approached by some  _ bandito _ and he offers us a heist big enough to retire on. You might remember him-- Carlos.”

 

She freezes at the name, her insides filling with white hot rage, she’s never felt so much hate in her life, she doesn’t care if it’s a sin when it burns like this. Her fist curls around the console as they keep inching forwards in line, a horn honks in the distance and she grits her teeth, trying not to see red. “Did you know what he was?” is what she manages in a hiss.

 

Seth shakes his head. “Monsters were just Indian superstition back in those days, so when Carlos offered us a big paying deal and retirement to move some oil bonds from Texas to Mexico, I jumped at the chance, no matter how weird he was around my brother. So we robbed the bank, but there was a lot of heat. We had to lay low and a lot of shit happened during the couple of days it took to get to the Titty Twister.”

 

At the last words she blinks, takes a moment to consider before asking, “Excuse me?”

 

He shrugs. “The place Carlos wanted us to meet him. It was--  _ is _ a strip bar. That’s where we’re going to find Richie.”

 

Disgust and outrage are the first feelings she gets when she hears they’re going to a  _ strip club  _ for help. She was raised a good baptist girl, and going into a place with half naked women gyrating on honry weirdos’ laps is not her forte. “We’re going to a  _ titty bar _ ?!” she hisses, disapproval apparent.

 

He only laughs at her. “Not just a normal titty bar, kiddo. A titty bar built on top of an ancient Mayan temple where the queen of culebras herself was trapped-- Santanico Pandemonium.”

 

She pauses at the name, winding down only slightly. “Richie’s maker.”

 

He nods. “She was also the star of the show, really got Richie wrapped up in her. That’s why we didn’t see the massacre coming. As soon as all the pervs and outlaws alike were distracted, and the doors were locked, it was time for the dancers to  _ feed _ .”

 

“Is that why we can’t go at dusk?” she asks.

 

“Smart girl. It’d be especially tough with your...condition.” He flits his eyes to the tampons box in the passenger footwell. She crosses her legs self-consciously.

 

“What happened after that?”

 

He shrugs. “Everything went to shit, basically. Richie gets hurt in the fight pretty bad, Santanico drags him off to fang him out. I try to get him back but get trapped in the labyrinth under the bar until he finds me and tells me we’ve gotta break the bitch free to get free ourselves. So we do it, my brother’s listening to miss snake tits all of a sudden, and I don’t even get my fucking money. I took off after that, didn’t see Richie for years, but he needed my help, eventually.”

 

She thinks about what he’s just said to her, that it was all to break this Santanico free, yet for some reason they’re going back to the same place. She questions her concern.

 

“That’s the hook,” he chuckles. “So she gets free and cons my brother into going on a revenge rampage after her captors once I book it, they get pretty far, killed the big bad, but he was only one of seven Lords who’d trapped her.”

 

“Lords?” she asks.

 

“They’re like Mayan gods, but a few steps down. The guy who’d cursed Santanico’s name was Malvaldo, he coveted her beauty but she denied him so he cursed her and pimped her out. That’s where Carlos came from, one of her many fans-- but she ditched him for my brother, and when she ditched my brother next the Lords she hadn’t killed caught up with her. They couldn’t trap her again because curses work like double jeopardy or some shit, but they do make her keep it going and bring them easy meals again from the clientele.”

 

“Then isn’t Richie walking into a trap?” she asks, surprised she feels so worried for Richie’s safety.

 

Seth shakes his head hesitantly. “He wouldn’t go if he didn’t know what he was doing.”

 

She stares out the windshield as the line finally picks up a bit of pace. “So Malvaldo, did he talk to Santanico? Was he like the ones that talk to me?”

 

“No. Different. He’s more like a Nephrin, whereas the ones who talk to you are the prophets-- did I get the bible references right?”

 

She shrugs. “I guess so.”

 

They’re quiet as she tries to think of more questions, asking on and off about culebras, about Carlos, the Lords, Mayan gods and the Gecko’s legend. 

 

By the time they reach the checkpoint she’s got a headache from all the mystic information, isn’t in the mood when the officer who stops them gives an obviously envious look at Seth’s car, tips his tanned head inside and sees Seth’s cocky smirk, Kate with her tiny shorts and young looks.

 

“U.S. citizens?” the officer asks in a clipped accent, looking around the car-- Seth’d had enough sense to stash the weapons bag under the trunk lift at the gas station so there isn’t anything for him to openly find, but Kate worries he’ll want them to get out of the car and do a search just because of the sheer flashiness of their relationship.

 

“Yes, officer,” she says before Seth can open his big mouth. Tries to remember all the spanish Rafa has taught her over the years and puts together a somewhat decent story about how she and her older brother, Seth, are missionaries from Texas going to help starving children in Mexican villages, talks real sweet with eyes open wide and batted lashes.

 

And, like that, the officer lets them through.

 

“Not bad,” Seth says as they pass the sign that announces they’re now entering Mexico. “We’ll make a regular conwoman out of you yet.”

 

She rolls her eyes, yet can’t help smiling. They’re quiet as they drive a few main streets till the end of the first town they pass before he turns off onto an unmarked dirt road. “It’s about to get real third-world from here,” he says.

 

There’s nothing but desert in front of them for miles, she watches a large rattlesnake slither into the dust as they speed past, has a sudden flash from the other night, the serpent crawling out of Libby’s broken, choking mouth. She can smell the rot of her flesh; sees her lungs inhaling through her rib cage-- somewhere in the back of her mind she can hear Libby’s heart still beating, trapped in a jar far beneath the earth.

 

_ They’re coming for you. _

 

He must have noticed her sudden discomfort because it’s Seth’s hand grabbing hers that brings her back into reality. Her eyes meet his and he gives her palm one squeeze before letting go and focussing on the road again.

 

“What about the sacrifices?” she asks then, surprised by his warmth. “Who’s doing it?”

 

He shakes his head. “Not sure, but if I had to bet, my money is on Carlos. He’s still involved with the Lords, and those shitheads are always up to something, but it’s been quiet this side of the border since culebras came out. I’m pretty sure the Lords wanted their secret kept quiet.”

 

“Why? Why did he take Scott? What do I have to do with this?”

 

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

 

They continue down the dirt road for a ways, passing small rundown towns and gas stations with one pump. It isn’t long before the sun begins to sink in the sky, and it’s at about that time that he announces it’d still take them another hour to get to the Twister and by then it’ll be halfway dark. He insists again that they are not going in after dusk.

  
  


They pass another town within the next twenty minutes and it’s modern enough to have a motel and a few restaurants, a small market. She sulks and worries about those crucial twenty-four as he pulls into the motel lot and parks, goes to the front desk to get them a room key.

 

When he walks back out he seems very agitated, slamming the door as he gets into the driver’s seat.

 

“What is it?”

 

“They only have singles available, and no cots.”

 

“Oh.”

 

They sit a moment before he simply pulls out of the lot and says they’ll deal with it later, that he needs some food and a drink. Her stomach rumbles in unison, he smiles at her and she shrugs, she hasn’t eaten all day, just sipping on the water she bought at the gas station. Besides that she has to pee pretty bad again.

 

A little ways up the road sits an old bar, some hunkered wooden structure with a dirt lot, various old cars and motorcycles parked outside but it offers food and liquor and that seems good enough for Seth. 

 

He takes a spot off to the side and has her door open before she has a chance to conceal her revolver in her waistband and get it herself, which shocks her as much as it did the first time or when his brother did it. Sure she’s only really  _ dated _ Kyle, who acted like baptist boy supreme, but she’s went out with other guys who never behaved like a gentleman, would stare at her tits while talking, wondering if what they say about preachers’ daughters growing up to be sluts is true when she got inside their heads. The Gecko brothers are from a different era though, and even if they’re crooks they still somehow seem to work on old fashioned rules of etiquette when they’re not being outright assholes.

 

She kinda likes it.

 

“Thank you,” she says.

 

He smirks at her. “You’re a little southern bell, aren’t you? Bet you dressed in a gold gown for Halloween a few years in a row, huh? Or was that against your religion?”

 

She snorts as he opens the front door for her-- inside it’s full of life, bodies moving and dancing. They head straight up to the bar and he orders two shots of tequila in Spanish. 

 

“I don’t drink tequila,” she says after the bartender’s turned away.

 

He shakes his head. “They’re for me-- I figured you’re more of a whiskey girl, am I right?”

 

Her eyes cant down to the floor, because he’s hit the nail on the head once again. Though she is a preacher’s daughter and is vastly aware of her sins therefore, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t drank before. She works at a bar, after all.

 

Instead of laughing at her like she figured, he orders her a Jack and Coke on his tab. He takes both shots without missing a beat when their drinks arrive, she looks between him and the empty shot glasses wide-eyed. Though she isn’t new to drinking, she is a bit worried about the time and the place, being off the defense if she gets too lost.

 

“Come on, princess,” he says. “You’ve been scared as a rabbit being dug outta it’s burrow since I met you, relax a moment since we don’t have anywhere to go till tomorrow, huh?”

 

She sighs, wonders if maybe he’s right, if the calm will give her some kind of clarity. It’s been a  _ really _ long day after all, she reasons maybe one drink won’t hurt, sips on her mixer and tries to settle herself into her seat.

 

She’s still too nauseous for anything to sound good to eat, points to the first thing on the menu when asked, chicken tacos and sides, something she can get down easy. He takes his time before finally settling on a burrito that seems to be stuffed with every kind of meat known to man. She realizes her glass is already half gone when their food arrives and tries to tell herself to slow down. They scarf their food in silence when it comes, she’s hungrier than she thought she was after getting her first bites, wolfing down tacos and rice. 

 

“You don’t eat like I thought you would,” he quips once they’re done.

 

“What’s that mean?” she asks, wiping her greasy face with a napkin.

 

He signals two more drinks, the first is in her system now and she feels warm, a bit more level, she reasons one more wouldn’t be too bad, it feels nice to have a somewhat fuzzy brain, drowning out the spiders of worry. 

 

“Dainty, like a homecoming queen should,” he deadpans.

 

She blushes, he’s right on the money about who she used to be once again.

 

They sit and digest and listen to music comfortably as they have their second drinks, she’s not sure when it turns into a third-- somewhere between another shot and beer for Seth-- and soon she’s a little tipsy, still on edge, but she’s intoxicated enough she doesn’t want to think about where she is or why she’s here or who she’s with for just a moment. Doesn’t want to think about her brother, or his brother, or him or her or anything.

 

All her time is spent fixing one problem after the next, and she feels like she’s all out of solutions.

 

After awhile she notices a few younger people playing pool, slides off her barstool to go watch. Seth silently follows like a shadow, she feels kind of weird about the fact he won’t leave her out of his sight, thinks foggily about sunglasses back at the gas station in Texas and writes it off as him worrying she’s the type to attract trouble. It’s been a true statement the last few weeks anyways. 

 

Eventually he asks her if she wants to play and she says yes, but she’s not very good. Misses shots, he helps line her up but gives her personal space, isn’t trying to be too intrusive in her intoxicated state, she appreciates it as well as the tips he shows her. They play a one on one round and he orders her another drink when a pair of men walk up to them, they look like cholos and she's apprehensive as they put quarters against her and Seth for winning.

 

They lose the first game of course and she’s ready to leave, their adversaries having become more rude and lecherous with every turn, talking in Spanish about how they'd like to grab Kate from the  _pendejo_ she's with and run; they know that she can understand him but don't seem to care, Seth keeps an arm around her when she isn't playing but it isn't enough to make her feel safe. He insists they play another round, she’s not sure how much the bet goes for this time, misses her shot anyways, feels like her head is swaying, figures they’ll lose again and goes to get herself a water and away from pigheaded men.

 

She takes some extra time to go to the bathroom again, lingers and stares at her drunken self in the mirror, wondering how she got here and letting herself wallow if only for a moment.

 

When she comes back to the pool table the atmosphere has changed completely: all of their stripes are in the pocket, and so is the eight-ball; she blinks and notices their challengers have Seth backed into a corner, cursing at him in Spanish rather loudly, like they don't care who knows which worries her. She makes out ‘cheating’ and ‘liar’ and 'dead' among other awful things. When they turn and shove past her violently she cringes, has enough sense to understand they're in trouble when the men say they're going to get their friends. She watches them move towards the back of the bar and turns to look at Seth with terrified eyes.

 

“Our time to amscray, princess,” he says, and drags her out the side door.

 

It all clicks in her head as the night air hits her with fresh intensity; the adrenaline clouds the alcohol and she feels played. “You just got me drunk to use me to run a pool hall scam!”

 

He smirks, guilty as charged, trying to push her along towards the car when she stops cold in anger. “Felt like making some extra cash.”

 

“Like you don’t have enough?” 

 

“Look, we all have our vices. Now’s not the time to argue, we need to go.”

 

“And why’s that?” she asks, stomping her foot like a petulant child and refusing to move. “They haven’t come after us.”

 

“No,” he sighs, and that’s when he pulls out his gun and flanks her side, clicking the safety off. “But their friends have.”

 

For a moment she’s too angry to understand, but then she can hear the  _ hissing _ , low yet menacing, like a hundred snakes slithering through the dirt all around them. It’s intermixed with strange clicks that sounds like snapping teeth, stretching tendons, a jawbone clicking into place. Her insides spark like she’s touched an electric socket, new endorphins pumping through her, she thinks she read somewhere once that snakes can smell fear.

 

The cuelbras come from the shadows, they move unnaturally slow, taunting, they are the devourers and have nothing to fear. The only light in the lot is from the moon and neon on the bar sign, it slants their faces red as they step into view. She gasps as she realizes their bodies aren’t right though, necks long and bent like they've been stretched, moving at sickening angles as their pointed faces snap to and fro like cobras. Their fingers are talons and their eyes are slits, she sees the glisten of venom on their fangs.

 

They come close, but keep about a meter’s distance, heads moving in circles to mock as they survey their prey. “You’ve been mes-s-sing where you don’t belong,  _ gringo _ ,” one says, tongue twisting between his fangs.

 

“I’m just trying to make an honest living here, fellas,” Seth answers.

 

The other culebra  _ tsks _ and turns its yellow gaze towards her, his voice is the same as the others’ when he speaks. “ _Chica bonita, podría comerte,”_ he coos, because like the cholos, he knows that she can understand him.

 

Her mouth falls open, she wants to scream but nothing comes out, it feels like her feet are rooted to the earth and she can’t move.

  
  


Instead, Seth does it for her, throwing himself forwards and tackling the first of the culebras, firing a shot into the other in tandem. “Get in the car, Kate!” he shouts, yet she still can’t move, watching the scene unfold in horror as the one Seth shot begins to move forwards effortlessly though he’s got a slug stuck in his belly and black goo dripping out, repeating again how he could just _eat._ _her_. _up_. 

 

“Kate! Run!”

 

She snaps out of her haze when the gun discharges again, this time hitting the one he’s wrestling in the head, blood spurts everywhere, on him, on her, on the snake still coming towards her. Sense floods her and panic sets in, her feet turn and she tries to flee like he’s told her, makes it to the car and gets through the door, slams it and hits the lock. She looks out the passenger window to check on Seth only to watch a clawed fist come through.

 

She screams as the glass shatters, shards flying into her face and lap, she feels the sting and hot rush of blood from dozens of little cuts, doesn’t have time to comprehend as pain explodes on her scalp, there’s claws in her hair and suddenly she’s being pulled through the open space of the window. She spits and flails as the culebr drags her to the dirt, Seth yells her name but the other culebra has recovered and has him down, too, they’re grappling and he can’t get to her.

 

"I bet the fear has made you deliciousss," he taunts.

 

"Fuck you!"

 

She flails and twists frantically away from the snake’s grasp, his hands are everywhere, dragging and trying to claw through her clothes. He makes a good sized scratch down her thigh and she screams out, his nostrils flare at the surplus of blood and he hisses; immediately he tries to bring his mouth to the wound. Something akin to calm suddenly takes her over as she sees his fangs flash in the moonlight, venom dripping and she  _ cannot let him infect her _ .

 

With movement she did not know she posses, she manages to twist and roll before he can bite, bringing her heels up and bracing them towards either side of the culebra’s head before she kicks her feet together as hard as she can. Her shoes take most of the impact but she can feel when bone hits bone, a zinging sort of pain shooting through her toes and up her legs, but she doesn’t have time to focus on that, can only act instead.

 

Her first move has stunned the culebra- she kicked hard enough to crack his temple, blood leaks from the wound before it begins to heal, and while its down she uses his weakness to roll onto her feet, pull her foot back and kick towards its face as hard as she can. The impact this time is less hindering this time, her system going into shock and canceling out the pain. She continues to kick almost frantically after that, terrified it’ll get back up if she doesn’t. Her ears don’t even recognize the sound of crunching bone, breaking teeth, her eyes don’t register blood and visceral flying, a jaw hanging from one socket, an exploded eyeball all over her Keds. She just keeps kicking.

 

It’s enough to buy Seth the time he needs to regain control of his own fight, put the gun in his hand under the other culebra’s chin and fire again, sending blood and brain matter everywhere for a second time, but this wound seems to stick. He shucks the flailing creature off of him and hurries to Kate, asking if she’s hurt, if she’s okay.

 

She nods, pulls her revolver out of the back of her waistband and clicks back the safety as her attacker groans behind what used to be his face, aims it towards what’s left of his forehead and pulls the trigger, doesn’t have time to think about it just imitates the man at her side. 

 

She’s killed deer before with her father, she’s a good shot. 

 

It goes limp once again like its partner now has, both snakes in hibernation to heal after too much blood and gore lost, she realizes. Watches their wounds close and regenerate like something from the movies as Seth goes to the truck and gets two of the many stakes he took from Richie’s house, handing one to her.

 

“I figure if you’re gonna go any farther with this, you better become acquainted with how messy this can get.”

 

Before going to the one he took out, he puts another slug in her attacker’s skull for safety. Kneels down into the other culebra’s chest and shows her the right angle to strike. It isn’t dust and bone like she thought it would be when the stake goes in, instead it’s another explosion of blood and they’re both absolutely covered in it now if they weren’t before. 

 

She turns and vomits after and lets him finish the other one while she finishes getting sick.

 

After, they get back in the car.

 

“Did you know that that would happen when you conned those guys?”

 

“No, I figured they were bikers, not fang bangers.”

 

“We made so much noise, why did no one help?”

 

“The locals down here have known about culebras longer than anyone, they don’t mess with their business. It’s the smart thing to do, maybe not the right from your point of view, but you’re gonna learn that not everything is about the right thing. Sometimes you just do what you’ve got to do to survive.”

 

They’re silent as he drives back to the motel, she still feels drunk despite puking now that the adrenaline has worn away. Her feet ache and the cut on her thigh is burning like all the little ones on her hands and face from where the window shattered on her. Seth’s got a few wounds himself, scratches on his shoulder, a bruised lip, split knuckles. More than anything she just wants to crawl in bed and forget this entire day happened. 

 

He parks to the side and grabs two duffles out of the truck, she figures one is of his own things, the other is all their weapons. It’s only when he unlocks the door and lets them inside she remembers what he’d said about them only have single rooms available and any hope she’d had of forgetting the night is gone.

 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?”   
  


She glances from the ominous single bed to where he’s set his bag on the small table by the window, motions for her to come sit. Sighing, she closes the door, deadbolts and chains, paranoid about the men he conned finding what’s left of their culebra friends and coming after them for revenge.

 

“You can sleep in the bed if it helps,” he says, she blinks, thinking Scott would laugh if he could see her now as she sits at the table like instructed.

 

“Let me see your leg,” Seth says as he pulls a first aid kit out of his bag, sits across from her on the side of the bed and pats his knee.

 

She blushes and lifts her injured leg so he can look, grits her teeth when he washes it with isopropyl. “It isn’t deep,” he says. “But you gotta keep it clean or it’ll get infected, princess.” He scrubs it more and wraps it for her, she avoids his eyes while his fingers are gentle on her skin. His touch is soft, like he’s nursing a wounded bird; it’s warm, too, unlike his brother’s. “Now let me see that pretty face, huh?”

 

Her eyes meet his only because she has to, he takes her chin between two fingers and begins wiping the blood away with a rag. She feels fragile suddenly, his hands so tender as he studies the cuts underneath, finger pads wisping over the ones near her mouth. “It doesn’t look like they’re still bleeding, but there’s a lot of them. Better shower up before the culebra blood gets in.”

 

“What about you?” she asks as he stands and frowns at the blood his soaked pants have left on the comforter.

 

“What about me?” he asks.

 

“Your shoulder and--” she starts, glances where she remembers the scratches being and balks when she can see from even under all the blood that they’re gone. She realizes his face is all better too. “Well, fuck.”

 

He chuckles. “I’m immortal princess, remember?”

 

Shrugging, she stands to go to the bathroom, avoids her reflection in the mirror because she doesn’t want to see what she's become, not yet. The water that flows down the shower drain is ruddy brown, the culebras' blood mixing with her own from between her legs in a repulsive slosh, she tries to take deep breaths to keep herself from being sick again. Everything hurts, her mind is like static on a television, she can’t stop seeing the way that culebra burst when Seth staked him, she’d never known what they look like when they die, really, but this is... a lot.

 

When she gets out there’s two towels, her box of tampons, a t-shirt and men’s boxers waiting for her, she figures that’s the best he’s got on short notice. Comes out dressed and ready to thank him when she sees he’s stripped himself of his bloody clothes and washed up the best he can in the sink, now sitting in bed under the covers with the television on, and he isn’t wearing a shirt. Her cheeks heat as she wonders if he’s fully naked. 

 

“I thought I got the bed?” is all she can stammer out.

 

“I said you could  _ sleep _ in the bed,” he says. “But I ain’t sleeping on the floor either, princess. Ever gotten Mexican crabs? They ain’t fun.”

 

She stands there awkwardly.

 

“Look, I know you’re not used to sharing a bed with a man, but look, I ordered extra pillows--” he lifts the covers and she’s relieved to see he’s at least wearing boxers-- very fitted ones-- as well as a wall of pillows down the middle of the full sized bed. “No touching, okay. I’ll stay on my side.”

 

She’s so tired and scared and sore she can’t argue anymore, crawls into her side of the bed and stays at the edge, blanking out to the television-- a John Wayne movie-- as she begins to finger comb her hair. She’s so out of it she doesn’t notice him get up and go to his duffle to grab something-- it’s only when he sits in front of her on the bed does she notice he’d moved. She startles, looks down to see him holding out a cheap comb. Goes to take it from him but he holds onto it.

 

“Want me to brush it for you?”

 

“You and your brother have a thing for hair, don’t you?”

 

“Only when it’s as nice as yours.”

 

She laughs, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Maybe another time.”

 

When she’s finished she lies down with her back turned to him, staring at the light from the neon through the blinds, hoping no one knocks on their door looking for revenge. He finishes the movie and turns off the television, settling down into his side of the bed noisily, fluffing his pillows and grunting once content. It reminds her of Scott. Her heart hurts and there's a dull thud inside of her where the grief and guilt has settled.

 

“Hey, Seth?”

 

She can hear him turn to face her in the stillness of the room. “Yes, princess?”

 

“Do you really think I’m going to find my brother?”

 

He’s quiet a long moment. “I do. I’m just not sure if it’s going to be the way you want.”

 

When she finally passes out from exhaustion it’s only to find herself in fitful dreams about chasing  _ him _ through an unknown and ancient labyrinth, calling out for her brother. There’s things moving around her, creatures and ghosts. She hears them slither and hiss, she knows what their blood smells like now and it’s drowning her.

 

“Kate! Help me!”

 

It’s Scott, somewhere far away. She can hear him screaming, calling her name, but every turn she takes through the endless corridors isn't right, she can't do anything right,  _ he _ ’s making sure she goes the wrong way, hands snaking out of the dark and pushing her in the opposite direction.

 

“Stop fucking with me!” she screams, falling to her knees on a damp stone floor. She wants to pray, but her hands won't steeple and she chokes on every word she tries to get out.

 

“I’m just trying to put you on the right path.” _His_ voice is everywhere, in the dark, the air, the rooms, and inside of her most of all.

 

“I just want this all to go away!”

 

“You’re lying. I know you are.” He’s right behind her, she can feel his breath on her neck, his claws in her hip. His mouth skims her carotid, she cannot move, ready to be devoured. “You’re just begging me to set you free.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
